LITTLE    HOUSES 


OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGKLE9 


LITTLE  HOUSES 

A  TALE  OF  PAST  YEARS 


BY 


GEORGE  WODEN 


"  Seest  thou  a  man  diligent  in  bis  business  ?  He 
shall  stand  before  Kings;  he  shall  not  stand  before 
mean  wen."— Proverbs  xxn.  29. 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  DUTTON  AND  COMPANY 
681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


COPYRIGHT,  1919 
By  E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved 


Printed  in  the  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 

FIRST  PART 

CHAPTBB  PAQB 

I.  PRIZES     . i 

II.  HOME 18 

III.    BlNNSES 30 

SECOND  PART 

I.  THE  PIE  FAIR 59 

II.  THE  FAT  LADY 80 

III.  THE  GLEE  SINGERS 94 

IV.  CAROLS 108 

V.  CHRISTMAS  DAY 123 

VI.  SPRINGTIME 143 

THIRD  PART 

I.  THE  CURATE 157 

II.  "  SELVALLEY  RHYMES  " 173 

III.  FRIENDS 184 

IV.  THE  STRIKE 197 

V.  STRESS 208 

VI.  WINTER 221 

VII.  NEWS 232 

VIII.  THE  HILL 246 

IX.  THE  EVE 255 

X.  SUNDAY 266 

v. 


LITTLE   HOUSES 


LITTLE  HOUSES 

FIRST  PART 
CHAPTER  I 

PRIZES 

THE  year  was  1882.  In  the  public-houses 
the  Phoenix  Park  Murders  and  the  eternal 
Irish  Question  had  been  quarrelled  over 
until  those  affairs  had  less  importance  than  the 
progress  of  the  local  crops.  There  had  been  a 
fine  patriotic  glow,  with  awesome  pride  in  the  ter- 
rors of  new  warfare,  at  the  news  of  the  bombard- 
ment of  Alexandria:  warships  riding  from  four  to 
eight  miles  out,  and  pounding  the  shore  batteries  to 
rubble — wonderful!  Spelling-bee  winners  had 
shored  up  tottering  reputations  with  props  of  topical 
facts  culled  ruthlessly  from  the  children's  geography 
books  and  atlases;  and  certain  reluctant  admis- 
sions were  heard  in  agreement  with  the  authorities 
who  forced  children  to  school  now,  instead  of 
allowing  them  to  be  driven  to  work.  Selbridge, 
newly  made  a  borough,  had  appeared  with  an 
anvil  and  tools  upon  its  municipal  coat  of  arms, 
and  the  motto  "Strength  by  Labour,"  in  English, 
capable  of  being  read  by  comrron  folk,  shocking 
the  scholars  who  talked  of  dignity,  and  delighting 
all  who  derided  Latin  scholarship  because  they 
hadn't  any.  Selbridge,  indeed,  was  a  stirring, 
progressive  place,  proud  of  the  growing  importance 

i 


2  LITTLE  HOUSES 

of  its  manufactures,  and  confident  of  the  future. 
Pedley  Hill,  its  southern  neighbour,  was  smugly 
satisfied  with  its  uneventful  municipal  history ; 
the  present  was  comfortable  enough;  the  future 
would  bring  changes,  no  doubt,  changes  for  the 
worse,  probably;  the  town  had  survived  changes 
in  the  past,  and  would  survive  those  of  the  future. 
Selbridge  had  sprung  up  round  the  pits  in  the  early 
part  of  the  Queen's  reign,  a  place  without  history 
and  without  beauty,  making  money  rapidly  and 
spending  it.  Already  its  suburbs  were  spreading 
out  like  giant  tentacles  to  clutch  the  surrounding 
hamlets.  Only  the  hill  shut  out  its  offensive 
presence  from  its  neighbour's  .eyes.  Pedley  Hill 
was  not  marked  in  the  school  atlases  now,  though 
Selbridge  was.  No  matter — anyone  could  put 
a  dot  there  to  mark  it  for  himself — but  nobody 
could  put  Selbridge  alongside  Pedley  Hill  in  the 
Anglo-Saxon  chronicle.  In  the  sixth  century, 
date  remote  beyond  imagination,  Caewlin,  King 
of  Wessex,  after  his  great  victory  at  Deorham, 
came  with  his  Saxon  troops  up  the  Severn  Valley 
to  the  conquest  of  the  West  Midlands.  Pedley 
Hill  had  been  held  by  him,  commanding  the  valley 
of  the  little  river  Sele. 

To-day  the  town  was  enjoying  its  customary 
Sabbath  doze,  after  the  hot  joints  and  vegetables, 
the  pies  and  puddings,  which  marked  the  day. 
The  July  sun  had  glared  upon  the  stones  of  the 
Bullen  since  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  the 
air  quivered  in  the  radiant  heat.  Pigeons  strutted 
lazily,  pecking  a  grain  here  and  there  dropped  in 
Saturday's  market.  The  doors  and  windows  of 
the  "Bull"  were  wide  open,  letting  out  the  smell 
of  ale  and  the  occasional  clink  of  glasses.  A  dog 
slept  at  the  yard  door.  Over  by  the  Town  Hall, 
in  the  cool  shade  of  the  arch,  a  tramp  had  taken 
off  his  boots  and  lay  dozing.  The  clock  in  the 


PRIZES  3 

tower  chimed  the  half -hour  solemnly,  waking  other 
clocks  to  their  duty.  Gilded  chanticleer  of  the  vane 
was  sound  asleep. 

The  "Bull"  closed  its  doors  for  the  afternoon 
and  the  last  customers  drifted  away.  Presently 
came  footsteps  across  the  place,  from  Lesur  Lane, 
George  Street,  High  Street,  Orchard  Street,  chil- 
dren in  their  best  clothes,  all  making  to  climb  the 
steep  slope  of  Castle  Street  to  the  parish  church. 
The  prizes  were  being  distributed  at  the  Sunday 
school  to-day.  Parents  had  foregone  their 
afternoon  nap,  had  washed  up  the  dishes  quickly, 
and  dressed  in  hot  haste,  in  order  to  see  their 
children  receive  their  annual  honours,  bright- 
coloured  books,  with  red  and  gold  labels,  for  regular 
attendance  on  Sunday  afternoons,  safe  out  of 
mother's  way.  The  little  girls  were  prim  and  sedate, 
proudly  conscious  of  their  summer  finery;  the 
boys  moved  as  though  they  were  heartily  ashamed 
of  themselves,  and  deserved  their  uncomfortable 
punishment.  The  dog  awoke — it  was  no  longer 
safe  to  sleep.  The  tramp  put  on  his  boots,  and 
shuffled  across  to  Lesur  Lane,  for  the  Bristol  Road 
and  north  to  Selbridge. 

The  school  bell  tolled,  calling  the  stragglers.  A 
carriage  and  pair  drove  across  from  High  street, 
and  ascended  the  hill  at  a  walk.  The  children 
gathered  round  as  escort,  for  it  bore  Mrs.  Kings- 
norton,  who  was  going  to  give  the  prizes.  The 
two  girls  with  the  sunshades  were  her  daughters. 
The  elder,  indeed,  had  now  entered  womanhood. 
The  vicar  came  across  from  the  vicarage  to  the 
school  gate  just  in  time  for  their  arrival,  much 
to  the  satisfaction  of  the  children,  who  looked  upon 
his  courtesy  as  an  amusing  spectacle  acted  for  their 
delectation.  He  remained  bareheaded,  holding 
his  Master  of  Arts'  cap  in  his  hand,  and  little 
boys  wondered  how  he  could  be  comfortable  with 


4  LITTLE  HOUSES 

such  a  thing  when  they  detested  theirs  so  self- 
consciously. 

The  bell  ceased  its  ringing,  and  the  last  of  the 
children  began  to  scuttle  into  school.  John  Allday 
moved  to  follow  the  others. 

"Aren't  you  coming,  Sam?"  he  called  out. 

"There's  plenty  of  time.    You're  frightened." 

"I  aren't!" 

He  was  a  sturdy  brown-haired  boy,  neat  in  his 
Sunday  suit,  an  ordinary  healthy  boy  to  view,  with 
nothing  to  cause  the  glance  to  return  to  him  with 
sudden  interest.  Sam  Bloom,  his  companion,  a  tall 
boy  with  a  mass  of  untidy  yellow  hair,  caught  the 
attention  at  the  first  glance.  His  clothes  were  old, 
but  he  wore  them  with  a  swagger,  almost  truculent, 
as  though  they  were  finery.  His  face  was  rather 
heavy  in  its  expression,  and  the  blue  eyes  seemed 
to  sleep.  The  unobservant  only  saw  the  yellow  hair, 
and  the  fine  manner. 

A  girl  came  running  down  the  hill,  her  face 
flushed  by  her  anxious  haste. 

"Hurry  up,  Maggie,  the  vicar's  been  asking  for 
you.  They're  all  waiting,"  said  Sam. 

"You're  a  story !"  she  retorted.  "I  couldn't  help 
it.  Mother  hadn't  got  my  things  ready." 

Sam  ran  to  the  gate  to  prevent  her  entering,  and 
there  was  a  lively  scufHe. 

"I  shall  tell  the  vicar  ...  No,  don't!  .  .  . 
Please!  .  .  .  Here's  your  grandfather!" 

Sam  turned  to  look,  and  she  darted  past  him. 
John  Allday  followed  her. 

An  old  man  with  a  white  top  hat  was  coming 
slowly  up  the  hill.  Sam  looked  a  second  time  at  the 
bent  figure,  and  then  strode  quietly  across  into 
school. 

From  time  to  time  the  old  man  stopped,  and 
turned,  as  though  he  had  paused  to  admire  the 
view,  while  his  breathing  made  wheezy  noises  in 


PRIZES  5 

his  chest.  He  had  a  small,  shrivelled  face,  with 
long  side-whiskers  drooping.  His  gnarled  fist 
rested  on  the  silver  knob  of  an  umbrella.  His 
whole  costume  was  in  keeping  with  himself,  old, 
long  out  of  date,  and  precisely  neat.  The  school 
caretaker,  who  had  come  to  the  gate  to  take  the 
air,  greeted  him  in  a  tone  which  mingled  familiarity 
and  respect. 

"Grand  weather,  Mr.  Peacock." 

"Ah!"  was  all  the  old  man  could  spare,  but 
his  voice  was  deep  and  impressive,  belying  his 
years. 

"Come  to  see  the  lad  get  his  prize?"  said  the 
caretaker. 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  man  proudly.  "I  promised 
his  mother  I'd  look  after  him." 

"Clever  lad,  Mr.  Peacock,"  said  the  caretaker. 

The  grandfather's  pride  glowed. 

"I've  taught  him  myself." 

He  did  not  hear  the  other's  comment:  "And 
a  bit  o'  help  from  Old  Nick."  His  hearing  was 
a  trifle  dulled,  and  he  was  making  for  the  school 
door. 

The  caretaker  looked  up  and  down  to  see  that 
he  was  unobserved  by  authority,  and  then  he  lit 
his  pipe.  He  remembered  the  scandal  of  Mr* 
Peacock's  daughter  running  away  from  home, 
and  her  return  before  the  boy  was  born.  She 
was  married,  it  was  said.  He  didn't  believe  that. 
She  was  no  better  than — than — well,  no  better 
than  many  another,  was  his  invidious  comment,  and 
her  father  was  a  proud  old  fool.  The  boy  was  a 
clever  young  imp,  like  his  father.  The  caretaker 
had  never  seen  the  boy's  father,  but  that  didn't 
matter.  With  gruff  condescension  he  admitted 
that  the  old  man's  son,  the  one  who  had  been  killed 
on  the  railway,  had  been  a  fine  young  fellow.  That 
was  all  there  was  to  be  said  about  the  family. 


6  LITTLE  HOUSES 

Many  more  interesting  scandals  had  happened 
since  theirs;  they  had  neither  grown  rich  nor 
sought  parish  relief;  old  Peacock  himself  would 
never  be  noticed  if  he  didn'  t  wear  that  stupid 
white  hat. 

A  soft  gilded  haze  filled  the  valley.  The  southern 
hills,  with  the  wooded  clump  of  Selvalley  Beacon, 
were  only  just  visible.  There  was  little  movement 
in  the  town.  Here  and  there  a  thin  blue  reek  rose 
from  a  chimney,  the  last  from  the  fire  that  had 
cooked  the  dinner.  All  the  shop  fires  at  Binnses 
were  asleep.  Beyond  the  town,  over  by  Nickling, 
where  the  parish  church  had  a  mission,  there  was  a 
tuft  above  the  colliery  stack,  the  only  pit  in  this 
part  of  the  valley,  and  an  eyesore  to  the  best 
Pedley  Hill  folk.  The  view  north  from  the 
top  of  the  hill  was  different — Selbridge  factories, 
and  workmen's  houses,  and  pits  beyond  that,  giant 
swellings  of  some  earth  disease.  Cadby's  old 
foundry  had  become  a  new  works,  "Cadby,  Stoke 
and  Company,  Limited,  Engineers  and  Iron-found- 
ers," only  just  beyond  the  boundary.  Fortunately 
the  hill  hid  these  things,  and  the  prevailing  winds 
came  from  the  west  and  south,  across  the  hills  and 
the  rich  meadows,  unpolluted. 

The  Parish  Church  School  was  an  old  worn 
building,  out  of  date  these  many  years,  condemned 
by  the  authorities,  and  patched  up  continually  to 
make  it  last  until  a  new  one  should  be  built.  No- 
body had  thought  of  its  being  inadequate  until  the 
growth  of  the  new  schools  born  of  the  Education 
Act.  Nobody  thought  of  new  church  schools, 
either,  except  as  an  incentive  to  raise  money  for  re- 
pairing the  old.  Where  father  had  learnt  his  ABC, 
there  should  his  children  learn,  sitting  at  the  same 
scarred,  ink-stained  desks,  looking  at  the  same 
veined  maps,  and  droning  the  same  worn  tunes  of 
knowledge  in  drowsy  chorus. 


PRIZES  7 

To-day  the  vicar  and  his  Sabbath  staff  sat  with 
Mrs.  Kingsnorton  on  the  platform  at  the  end  of  the 
main  room.  Three  classes  studied  together  there 
during  the  week,  shouting  against  each  other.  Now 
the  stuffy  school  odour  was  streaked  with  scents 
of  soap  and  best  dresses  kept  with  lavender.  The 
prizes  made  a  gallant  show  on  the  table  where  Mrs. 
Kingsnorton  sat  with  her  daughters  in  state,  at 
the  vicar's  right  hand.  Decorous  murmurs  ap- 
proved the  vicar's  oratory,  while  the  bolder  chil- 
dren shuffled,  and  munched  sweets,  and  made  faces 
at  one  another. 

The  superintendent  of  the  Sunday  school  read 
the  names  of  the  prize-winners;  his  chief  assistant 
handed  each  book  to  the  vicar;  the  vicar  handed 
it  to  Mrs.  Kingsnorton ;  and  Mrs.  Kingsnorton  held 
it  out  to  be  snatched  timidly  by  the  winner. 

"Written  examination  in  Religious  Knowledge — 
first  prize:  Samuel  Bloom." 

Sam  walked  boldly  to  the  platform,  and  saluted 
Mrs.  Kingsnorton,  while  his  heel  gave  a  flourish 
to  make  his  friends  giggle.  The  vicar  explained 
pleasantly  that  everybody  couldn't  get  the  examina- 
tion prizes,  but  everybody  who  tried  could  win  a 
prize  for  regular  attendance.  Name  after  name 
was  called,  faster  and  faster.  John  Allday  came 
awkwardly  to  the  table,  his  face  very  red,  his  legs 
weak,  and  his  thoughts,  so  embarrassed  that  he 
forgot  to  salute.  Sam  Bloom  had  no  prize  for  regu- 
lar attendance — he  laughed  at  the  others.  Neither 
had  Maggie  Wheatley;  she  sat  alone  at  the  end  of 
a  seat,  and  a  little  sniff  from  time  to  time  would 
have  told  how  near  tears  she  was,  but  nobody  heeded 
her.  Old  Mr.  Peacock  sat  leaning  forward,  with 
his  hand  to  his  ear  to  catch  every  word,  and  his 
face  wrinkled  more  than  ever. 

It  was  over  at  last,  speeches,  votes  of  thanks,  the 
long  hymn  and  the  prayer.  Out  ran  the  children 


8  LITTLE  HOUSES 

into  the  sunshine.  The  carriage  was  waiting,  and 
they  stood  about  to  see  Mrs.  Kingsnorton  and  her 
daughters,  and  the  vicar,  all  part  of  the  afternoon 
show.  Down  in  the  town  the  young  folk  were 
out  to  parade  their  finery  before  tea,  in  the  High 
Street  and  the  new  Sele  Park. 

Sam  Bloom  and  his  friend  lingered  with  the 
groups  near  the  carriage,  not  to  see  the  great  lady 
drive  away,  but  for  Sam  to  tease  Maggie  Wheatley 
at  not  having  a  prize. 

"I  don't  care!  I  don't  want  one!"  she  reiterated. 

She  had  run  up  the  hill  towards  home  before  the 
tears  came.  Sam  couldn't  follow  her.  His  grand- 
father wanted  to  look  at  the  prize,  a  Bible;  and 
Sam  had  to  stand  while  the  old  man  held  it  out  at 
arm's  length,  trying  to  read  the  boy's  name,  written 
with  a  flourish,  on  the  fly-leaf. 

"And  what's  yours,  my  lad?" 

John  Allday  held  his  book  shyly  for  inspection. 

"Noble  Lives,"  read  the  old  man,  and  he  tapped 
the  Bible  he  still  held.  "This  is  the  Book  of  Noble 
Lives." 

"Will  you  hold  it  for  us,  grandfather?"  said 
Sam. 

He  didn't  wait  for  a  reply,  but  ran  off  down  the 
hill.  John  took  his  book,  and  followed.  The  old 
man  did  not  seem  to  notice  that  they  had  gone  so 
quickly.  He  stood  for  a  moment  without  moving, 
his  thoughts  repeating  the  words  "Noble  Lives." 
His  mind  was  slow  in  action,  though  clear  enough 
and  capable.  Repetition  for  him  had  no  monotony, 
for  he  lived  in  softened  memories  of  the  past.  He 
was  old.  Those  pressing  eagerly  forward  to  the 
future  had  no  time  and  little  sympathy  to  under- 
stand his  slow  recurrent  moods. 

"Let's  have  a  look  at  your  book,"  said  Sam, 
as  they  came  down  to  the  Bullen. 

They  paused  to  glance  at  some  of  the  pictures 


PRIZES  9 

together:  Columbus,  Palissy  the  Potter,  Sir  Hum- 
phrey Gilbert,  Robert  Clive,  George  Stephenson, 
Maker  of  Railways.  .  .  . 

"  'See  how  these  men  got  on.'  That's  what 
they're  always  telling  you,"  said  Sam  scornfully. 
"When  folks  are  grown  up  they're  always  putting 
you  off  with  sayings.  When  I  asked  my  grand- 
father to  let  me  go  to  the  Grammar  School,  he  told 
me  the  Apostles  never  went  to  a  grammar  school — 
as  if  that  was  any  argument!  'Willie  Benlow's 
going.  Why  shouldn't  I  ?'  I  told  him.  'What  do 
you  want  to  do  there?'  he  said;  and  I  said,  'Learn 
Latin  and  French  and  poetry/  and — you  know  you 
can't  explain  when  anybody's  angry  like  that  and 
won't  listen.  'What  good  will  poetry  do  you?' 
he  said.  I  told  him,  'It's  the  language  they  speak 
in  Heaven/  You  remember  Mr.  Brownlee  told  us." 

"What  did  your  grandfather  say?"  asked 
John. 

"I  came  out,"  said  Sam.  "He  told  me  the  next 
day  I'd  better  get  the  idea  out  of  my  head;  we 
were  too  poor.  'Why?'  I  said.  'It  isn't  any  fault 
of  mine.  It's  a  shame/  But  he  wouldn't  listen. 
He  told  me  I  was  too  young  to  understand,  and 
he  told  me  verses  out  of  the  Bible.  They  always 
put  you  off  with  something.  He  made  me  read 
one  night  about  you  getting  anything  you  ask  for 
if  you  pray  hard  enough.  It  says  you  can  move 
mountains,  you  know." 

"Yes,"  said  John,  although  he  didn't  know. 

"And  I  went  to  bed  and  prayed  to  go  to  the  sea- 
side with  Binnses  trip,  that  time  your  mother  had 
offered  to  take  me  with  you.  My  legs  went  cold, 
and  my  back  itched  all  over — you  know  how  you 
go.  That  was  the  night  before  my  grandfather  fell 
at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs.  He  was  in  bed  a  fort- 
night, you  remember,  and  I  had  to  stay  at  home 
and  run  errands." 


I0  LITTLE  HOUSES 

"I  remember,"  said  John.  He  was  inclined  to 
be  shocked  at  Sam's  story. 

"Wouldn't  you  want  to  go  to  the  Grammar 
School  if  you  were  me?"  said  Sam,  eager  for 
sympathy. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  John,  his  thoughts  only 
slowly  stirring.  "Father  says  I  might  go  to  work  at 
Binnses  when  I  leave  at  Christmas." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  to  work.  Mr.  Brownlee 
says,  'Stay  at  school  and  learn  to  play,  learn  to 
enjoy  books  and  understand  things.'  When  I 
was  at  the  vicarage  on  Friday,  getting  a  character, 
I  had  to  wait  in  a  room  full  of  books — hundreds 
of  'em,  all  with  leather  bindings — lovely!  If  I 
went  to  the  Grammar  School  I  could  read  books 
like  that." 

"Father  says  I  can  go  to  the  night  classes,"  said 
John. 

"Let  'em  keep  their  night  classes,"  exclaimed  Sam. 
"I  don't  want  'em." 

They  crossed  the  Bullen  and  walked  down  the 
High  Street  towards  the  river.  Sam  had  no  more 
to  say.  His  companion  was  occupied  with  his  new 
growing  thoughts. 

The  little  river  Sele,  flowing  east,  divided  the  town 
into  two  unequal  parts,  and  then  swung  to  the 
south  towards  the  funnel  of  the  converging  hills. 
Jack  had  lived  royally  in  its  waters,  herons  had 
loved  its  banks  years  ago,  before  the  Selbridge  fac- 
tories had  boiled  it  for  mechanical  power.  Now  it 
was  a  brown,  muddy  stream,  effluvial  when  running 
low;  and  in  place  of  the  otters  commemorated  in 
the  lane  where  Sam  lived,  off  the  High  Street,  the 
river  only  harboured  rats.  The  bridge  was  a  con- 
venient place  for  loungers,  who  leaned  daily  over 
the  parapet  and  spat  in  the  water. 

"I'm  coming  on  a  bit.  The  old  un's  got  the  key," 
said  Sam. 


PRIZES  ii 

They  crossed  the  bridge  together. 

Further  on,  near  the  Toll,  a  cat  darted  across  the 
way,  with  a  terrier  puppy  after  it,  barking  shrilly. 
The  cat  turned,  in  a  gullet  between  the  houses,  and 
the  dog  stopped,  and  sprang  back,  startled.  The 
cat's  tail  went  up,  its  spine  arched,  and  in  a  low 
noise,  like  a  kettle  simmering,  made  obligate  to  the 
dog's  snappy  bark. 

"Goon!  Good  dog!  Cats!  Cats!"  cried  Sam 
Bloom,  and  the  dog  barked  louder  than  ever.  Then 
the  cat  sprang,  the  dog  rolled  over  in  fright,  and 
the  sport  was  over. 

The  boys  laughed,  and  Sam  picked  up  the  terrier 
to  pat  it. 

"I've  got  some  string,"  said  Sam.  "Get  a  can — 
there's  an  ashpit  round  the  corner." 

John  ran  for  the  can,  and  they  tied  it  with  the 
string  to  the  dog's  tail. 

"Hoosh!     Go  on!     Cats!     Cats!" 

The  dog  refused  to  run.  It  had  suffered  in  this 
sport  before,  perhaps.  It  turned  slowly,  put  its  paw 
on  the  can,  and  then  lay  down.  When  Sam  pushed 
it  with  his  foot  it  lay  down  again. 

"It's  frightened,"  suggested  John. 

Sam's  mood  changed.  He  patted  the  dog,  called 
it  "Poor  doggie,"  and  unfastened  the  string  from 
its  tail.  When  they  went  away  it  followed  them. 
John  tried  to  drive  it  away,  but  Sam  patted  it,  and 
it  licked  his  hand. 

They  parted  at  the  Toll,  and  Sam  walked  slowly 
back  along  the  High  Street,  and  crossed  the  river 
again,  the  dog  trotting  at  his  heels.  He  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  it,  for  he  didn't  turn  to  look, 
and  at  last,  after  mute  glances  of  inquiry  at  the 
back  of  his  head,  the  terrier  hesitated,  and  finally 
sauntered  away. 

Sam  had  set  the  table  for  tea  before  he  went 
for  his  prize.  Mrs.  Thomas,  the  housekeeper, 


12  LITTLE  HOUSES 

went  out  on  Sundays  after  dinner,  and  did  not 
return  until  Monday  morning.  His  grandfather 
was  in  when  he  returned,  and  the  fire  was  crackling 
tinder  the  kettle.  He  had  to  cut  the  bread  and 
butter,  and  remembered  his  grandfather's  repeated 
injunction  not  to  spread  the  butter  too  thick.  Then 
after  the  quiet  meal  he  was  not  off  duty  until  he 
had  washed  up  the  dishes,  shaken  the  cloth  outside 
for  the  sparrows,  and  put  the  cheese  on  for  supper, 
the  white  mug  for  his  own  milk  and  the  blue  one 
for  his  grandfather's  ale.  The  old  man  sat  in  his 
high-backed  armchair,  and  smoked  his  pipe,  the  long 
churchwarden  to-day. 

"That's  all,  grandfather,"  said  Sam  at  last. 

"All  right,  my  lad.  See  as  you  don't  get  into 
mischief." 

The  old  man  took  a  kitchen  chair  out  to  the 
little  garden,  and  returned  for  his  spectacles  and 
the  Bible  with  the  big  print.  The  gardens  were 
marked  off  with  low  palings,  and  a  ragged  thorn 
hedge  shut  them  off  from  the  tiny  slope  of  meadow 
which  here  made  the  river  bank.  The  water  swirled 
gently  about  the  stones  and  debris  which  had 
gathered  to  make  cascades;  a  pied  wagtail  sported 
to  and  fro.  Beyond,  across  the  stream,  was  the 
trim  greenery  of  the  new  park. 

Mr.  Peacock  was  not  a  member  of  the  Estab- 
lished Faith.  He  had  been  stolen  from  the  flock  by 
the  teaching  of  a  new  apostle;  but  the  nearest 
branch  of  the  Catholic  Apostolic  Church  was  at 
Selbridge,  and  he  didn't  like  Selbridge.  He  didn't 
like  the  minister,  either.  So  gradually  he  had 
reformed  his  beliefs  in  solitude  with  his  Bible. 
Years  ago  he  had  fervently  believed  that  Christ's 
promise ^  was  about  to  be  fulfilled;  "I  will  see 
you  again,  and  your  heart  shall  rejoice,  and  your 
joy  no  man  taketh  from  you."  Daily  he  had 
prayed  that  the  morrow  might  dawn  upon  the 


PRIZES  13 

Master's  coming,  for  he  was  ready  with  the  elect. 
His  daughter's  folly,  his  son's  death,  his  poverty — 
he  had  met  these  with  fortitude,  seeking  strength 
in  the  Master's  words:  "In  the  world  ye  shall 
have  tribulation:  but  be  of  good  cheer;  I  have 
overcome  the  world."  Now,  with  the  weight  of 
full  fourscore  years,  he  found  his  faith  was  beset 
with  misgivings,  and  he  loved  best  to  read  of  the 
miracles  which  only  faith  might  deserve.  "Daughter, 
be  of  good  comfort;  thy  faith  hath  made  thee 
whole."  He  read  the  verse  slowly,  and  then  looked 
into  the  face  of  heaven  and  repeated  it,  keeping 
his  finger  on  the  place.  The  miracles  of  the  little 
garden,  the  bees  humming  over  the  marigolds,  the 
white  butterfly  hovering,  the  thin  drone  of  the 
midges — these  he  did  not  heed,  but  kept  his  glance 
fixed  through  his  spectacles  on  the  big  print  of  the 
page,  and  then  upwards  into  space,  his  thoughts  fad- 
ing to  a  nebulous  beatitude. 

Sam  had  until  nine  o'clock.  At  the  bridge  he 
met  two  other  boys  who  had  been  waiting  for  him, 
and  the  three  set  off  past  the  Toll,  and  along  the 
Bristol  Road  to  the  south.  A  brook  ran  under  the 
road  here,  and  across  the  meadows  to  join  the 
Sele.  There  was  a  little  works,  with  a  pool,  and  a 
disused  water  wheel.  The  flow  of  the  brook  was 
regulated  for  the  pool  by  a  hatch,  and  the  hatch  was 
tended  by  a  man  who  lived  in  a  cottage  near  by. 
His  garden  bordered  the  stream.  Boys  came  out  of 
the  town  with  little  nets,  and  pickle  jars  to  hold 
the  sticklebacks  they  caught;  and  when  tired 
of  the  sport  they  were  tempted  by  the  water-hens 
on  the  pool,  and  the  fruit  in  the  garden.  Sam 
and  his  companions  were  in  their  best  clothes,  and 
they  knew  they  ought  not  to  be  playing  near  the 
muddy  water;  mischief  was  therefore  all  the  more 
delightful.  They  threw  stones  where  they  would 
splash  most,  dared  one  another  to  jump  from 


I4  LITTLE  HOUSES 

bank  to  bank,  and  at  last,  after  much  elaborate 
spying  and  false  alarm,  they  stole  through  a  gap  in 
the  garden  hedge  and  feasted  on  the  ripe  yellow 
gooseberries. 

There  was  a  wild  scamper  when  the  owner  came 
on  them  unexpectedly,  on  his  way  from  church. 
Sam,  by  calling  directions  for  the  others'  safety, 
drew  attention  to  himself,  and  was  kicked,  dragged 
to  his  feet  after  he  had  fallen,  and  knocked  down 
again.  His  companions  never  turned  to  look.  He 
refused  to  give  their  names  and  addresses,  or  his 
own,  and  only  the  presence  of  ladies  on  the  field 
path  saved  him  from  a  thrashing.  His  aggressor 
was  hot  and  flushed,  and  had  to  save  his  dignity. 
So  Sam  suffered  a  rough  dragging  to  the  cottage 
gate,  and  loud  denunciation  of  his  wickedness, 
before  the  lady  who  had  given  him  his  prize  in  the 
afternoon.  Mrs.  Kingsnorton  recognized  him  with 
shocked  astonishment,  and  would  have  lectured  him 
had  he  stayed. 

He  came  back  after  she  had  gone,  and  the  cot- 
tage tenant  had  disappeared  indoors.  He  carried  a 
big  round  stone,  and  he  whispered  repeatedly  words 
which  brought  a  vague  fear  upon  his  anger. 
Stealthily  he  moved  beside  the  hedge,  and  swung 
the  stone;  he  did  not  know  what  he  was  going 
to  do.  Already  he  dreaded  to  hurl  it  at  the  low 
window,  as  he  had  planned.  There  was  a  row  of 
currant  bushes  in  the  garden  and  three  hives; 
these  caught  his  attention,  and  he  calculated 
where  he  might  best  stand  to  throw.  If  he  aimed 
at  the  middle  one,  there  was  a  better  chance  of 
hitting  one.  A  bee  came  past  his  ear,  making  for 
the  hive,  and  he  hesitated  a  moment  to  watch 
its  flight.  Others  had  gone  past  him  before  he 
recollected  with  a  start  that  he  had  not  thrown 
his  stone.  But  now  his  anger  was  gone.  He  hurled 
the  stone  as  far  as  he  could  into  the  pool.  It 


PRIZES  15 

made  a  brave  splash.  Then  he  thrust  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  and  walked  quietly  away.  After  a  few 
yards  he  began  to  whistle — a  subdued,  tuneless  little 
song. 

At  the  Toll  he  met  John  Allday,  and  he  recounted 
the  adventure  of  the  luscious  gooseberries,  without 
a  word  of  the  garden's  owner,  or  of  being  caught. 
Even  to  himself,  his  humiliation  was  almost  as 
though  it  had  never  been. 

"I  was  talking  to  mother  and  father  about 
going  to  the  Grammar  School,"  said  John. 

"You?"  Sam  asked.     "What  did  they  say?" 

"I  don't  know  yet,"  said  John. 

"I'm  going  in  early.  Grandfather  will  think  I'm 
ill,"  said  Sam. 

His  indifference  was  a  great  disappointment  to 
his  friend. 

Dusk  had  fallen  when  he  entered  Otter  Lane. 
A  soft  pink  and  primrose  glow  hung  in  the  western 
sky;  bats  darted  in  erratic  flight  above  the  water, 
and  little  moths  hovered.  Indoors,  Mr.  Peacock 
had  lit  the  lamp,  and  sat  with  his  arm-chair 
drawn  up,  and  his  mug  of  ale,  at  the  table  in  the 
sitting-room.  Sam's  Bible  prize  lay  by  his 
plate. 

"Good  lad!"  said  his  grandfather.  "A  chapter 
out  of  your  own  to-night." 

Sam  finished  his  supper  slowly,  and  sipped  his 
milk. 

The  reading  of  a  chapter  on  Sunday  evenings 
after  supper  was  as  regular  as  the  supper  itself. 
Sam  read,  and  the  old  man's  lips  moved  as  he 
followed  the  words  in  his  own  Bible. 

"Then  said  He  also  to  him  that  bade  Him, 
When  thou  makest  a  dinner  or  a  supper,  call  not 
thy  friends,  nor  thy  brethren,  neither  thy  kinsmen, 
nor  thy  rich  neighbours;  lest  they  also  bid  thee 
again,  and  a  recompense  be  made  thee. 


16  LITTLE  HOUSES 

"But  when  thou  makest  a  feast,  call  the  poor, 
the  maimed,  the  lame,  the  blind: 

"And  thou  shalt  be  blessed;  for  they  cannot 
recompense  thee:  for  thou  shalt  be  recompensed  at 
the  resurrection  of  the  just." 

Sam  paused. 

"Grandfather,"  he  asked,  interested  suddenly  in 
his  reading,  "why  don't  people  do  this?  We're 
poor.  We  don't  get  asked." 

His  grandfather  took  off  his  spectacles. 

"Some  people  have  to  be  rich,  and  some  poor, 
my  lad,"  he  began,  searching  for  a  reply. 

"But  they  don't  do  this,  do  they?"  Sam  insisted. 

"  'Ye  have  the  poor  always  with  you ;  but  Me  ye 
have  not  always,"  quoted  his  grandfather. 

"But  why  should  it  be  us?" 

"It's  God's  will." 

"It  wasn't  God's  will  that  my  father  was  a 
villain." 

The  old  man  was  startled. 

"A  what  ?    What's  that  you  say  ?" 

"I've  heard  you  say  he  was,"  said  Sam,  cowed  by 
his  own  temerity. 

"Finish  your  chapter,"  commanded  his  grand- 
father huskily;  "and  then  ask  in  your  prayers  for 
the  Lord  to  make  you  a  better  man  than  your 
father  was." 

Sam  obeyed,  and  read  quietly  the  parable  of  the 
great  supper.  His  grandfather's  finger  ceased  to 
travel  to  and  fro  on  the  page,  and  he  looked  up  with 
a  start  when  the  chapter  was  ended. 

Together  they  washed  tfle  few  supper  things,  and 
after  a  while  the  old  man  pointed  to  the  clock  by 
the  stairs  door. 

"Up  early  in  the  morning,  lad!" 

Sam  understood.  He  wished  his  grandfather 
"good  night,"  and  went  up  to  his  room.  The  day 
still  lingered  faintly  in  the  sky;  voices  murmured 


PRIZES  17 

across  the  gardens;  then  a  door  slammed,  and 
silence  came,  with  the  soft  whispering  of  the  water 
under  the  white  ribbon  of  mist.  Sam  undressed 
lazily,  and  said  his  prayers,  his  thoughts  straying 
to  the  man  of  the  gooseberry  garden,  to  impossible 
plans  of  revenge,  back  sharply  to  his  prayers,  and 
away  again,  restless  as  moths  fluttering. 

He  was  asleep  when  the  clock  wheezed  and 
struck  eleven,  and  the  stairs  creaked.  The  old 
man  mounted  very  slowly.  His  joints  cracked 
in  the  stillness.  The  yellow  candle-light  seemed 
to  deepen  his  wrinkles,  and  glinted  in  his  moist 
eyes.  He  had  been  thinking  of  his  son  and  daughter. 
But  his  head  was  erect.  Each  night  he  reminded 
himself  solemnly  that  before  sunrise  he  might 
stand  in  the  Lord's  presence. 


CHAPTER  II 

HOME 

JOHN  ALLDAY  lived  in  a  little  house  by  the 
Toll,  where  five  ways  met — the  end  of  the 
High  Street,  two  lanes  branching,  and  the 
Bristol  Road,  going  through  on  its  way  south. 
Three  houses  stood  together  in  a  terrace,  with  a 
strip  of  garden  in  front,  and  green  palings.  At  the 
back  the  gardens  reached  the  foot  of  the  railway 
embankment,  the  Great  Western  line  from  Sel- 
bridge.  There  was  danger  of  sparks  on  washing 
days,  and  smuts  from  the  locomotives,  and  the  great 
expresses  made  the  crockery  tinkle  indoors.  New- 
comers, affrighted,  felt  their  beds  tremble  o'  nights, 
but  they  soon  grew  used  to  it,  and  presently  declared 
they  slept  all  the  better.  The  first  miniature 
foothills  rose  here  from  the  valley,  so  that  south- 
bound trains  passed  over  one  lane  and  under  the 
next.  Thomas  Allday  had  helped  to  lay  the  broad 
gauge  track  under  the  great  Brunei,  and  naturally 
enjoyed  an  interest  almost  proprietory  in  the 
line. 

The  front  window  was  open  this  afternoon.  It 
had  been  shut  when  John  went  to  Sunday-school, 
and  the  change  roused  him  to  a  pleasant  anticipa- 
tion. The  sound  of  voices  came  out  to  him  across 
the  gay  lupins  and  hollyhocks — his  father's  cough, 
and  talk,  and  then  Mr.  Merry.  John  smiled. 

18 


HOME  19 

The  visitor's  presence  meant  fine  talk  to  listen  to, 
and  good  things  to  eat. 

He  went  quickly  round  the  back  of  the  houses, 
and  entered  by  the  kitchen  door.  Tea  was  set  in 
the  sitting-room,  with  the  best  china  out,  and  a 
glass  vase  of  flowers.  There  was  salad  for  tea — he 
knew — he  had  helped  his  mother  to  wash  the  lettuces 
and  the  young  onions  out  of  the  garden,  and  he  had 
been  looking  forward.  Now  he  saw  a  small  sauce- 
pan on  the  fire  to  boil  for  eggs.  He  looked  round 
anxiously:  one,  two,  three,  four — yes,  there  was  one 
for  him. 

Mrs.  Allday  came  in  from  the  kitchen. 

"Mr.  Merry's  here,  isn't  he?"  said  John. 

"Yes — in  the  front  with  your  father.  Is  that 
your  prize?" 

John  held  up  the  book  proudly. 

"Run  in  and  show  them,"  said  his  mother. 
"Tell  'em  tea's  nearly  ready.  I'll  see  it  after." 

She  wanted  him  out  of  her  way.  She  would 
not  trust  him  near  the  table  she  had  been  at  such 
pains  to  prepare. 

As  she  was  near-sighted,  and  short  and  plump, 
and  often  looking  up  at  others  taller,  she  had  a 
way  of  lifting  her  chin,  and  screwing  up  her  eyes 
behind  her  spectacles,  so  that  she  had  an  air  of 
whimsical  good  humour.  She  was  approaching 
fifty  years  of  age  now.  Her  hair  was  dark,  with 
no  trace  of  grey  in  it,  drawn  straight  back  from 
her  forehead;  she  hadn't  much  hair.  To-day  she 
was  dressed  ceremoniously,  and  was  stiff  in  her 
movements;  her  best  gold  earrings  dangled, 
tickling  her  face,  but  she  was  growing  used  to  them. 
John  was  fond  of  his  mother  in  an  undemonstrative 
way;  she  had  a  happy  knack  of  putting  toffees  in 
his  pocket,  and  having  dainties  for  his  tea,  to  sur- 
prise him.  The  great  things  she  had  done  for  him 
he  had  not  noticed,  or  had  not  understood;  some 


20  LITTLE  HOUSES 

of  them  he  had  accepted  as  inevitable,  like  the  sun- 
rise or  the  rain.  He  was  seldom  disobedient  beyond 
the  ordinary  disobedience  of  mischief.  When  she 
had  threatened  three  or  four  times  to  tell  his  father 
he  obeyed-  He  never  dared  to  disobey  his  father, 
and  never  tried  to  coax  him. 

Mr.  Allday  was  short,  like  his  wife.  He  was 
past  fifty  now,  and  his  light-brown  hair  was  turning 
grey  at  the  sides  of  his  poll;  it  had  disappeared 
from  the  top.  He  wore  a  velvet  smoking-cap  in 
the  house.  A  sandy  moustache,  very  bushy, 
came  in  a  curve  down  to  his  jaws.  To-day  he  had. 
his  best  smoking-cap  on,  rakishly  aslant,  the  one 
Mrs.  Allday  had  embroidered  for  him  before  they 
were  married,  and  he  had  smoked,  in  honour  of 
his  old  friend's  coming;  but  it  had  made  him  cough 
too  much.  His  cough  had  been  very  severe  the 
last  two  winters,  and  summer  failed  to  banish  iL 
He  had  been  compelled  to  leave  the  heavy  work 
of  the  rolling-mill  at  the  Selbridge  Iron  and  Steel 
Company's  works,  and  take  a  smaller  job  in  the 
warehouse. 

He  was  coughing  when  John  entered  the  parlour. 
Mr.  Merry  greeted  the  boy. 

"Hallo,  young  un!" 

John  grinned.  He  knew  he  must  not  say 
"Hallo/'  because  his  mother  had  lectured  him 
severely  once  for  having  said  it;  yet  he  was  too 
self-conscious  to  venture  upon  the  "Good  afternoon" 
of  ceremony. 

Tom  Merry  was  a  tall  lanky  bachelor  of  ripe 
middle  age,  wearing  the  square-cut  clothes  of  the 
seafaring  man  ashore.  He  was  a  ship's  engineer. 
He  had  known  Mrs,  Allday  since  childhood,  had 
taken  her  to  school,  and  had  been  best  man  at  her 
wedding.  He  never  came  to  see  his  sisters  at  Sel- 
bridge without  coming  over  to  Pedley  HilL 

"How's  young  John?"  he  asked  pleasantly. 


HOME  21 

"All  right,  thank  you,"  said  John.  "I've  brought 
my  prize." 

This  brought  him  naturally  into  the  conversation. 
He  liked  Mr.  Merry;  he  had  sailed  the  seas,  been 
in  foreign  lands,  like  the  heroes  of  "Tom  Cringle's 
Log,"  and  Captain  Marryat  He  seldom  said  any- 
thing of  his  travels,  but  John  was  sure  they  were 
none  the  less  wonderful  for  that.  Sometimes,  when 
his  father  and  Mr.  Merry  were  chatting,  and  he 
came  in  unobserved,  or  when  he  was  not  supposed 
to  be  listening,  he  heard  fragments  which,  by  the 
secrecy,  must  surely  have  belonged  to  marvellous 
adventures. 

Mrs.  Allday  summoned  them  to  tea.  John  ate 
diligently  in  silence.  "Little  boys  should  be  seen 
and  not  heard,"  so  he  had  been  told.  He  would 
have  liked  to  combat  the  value  of  the  adage,  but  its 
reiteration  quelled  him.  At  the  end  of  the  meal, 
however,  he  was  invited  to  talk. 

"I  came  home  with  Sam  Bloom.  He  wants  to  go 
to  the  Grammar  School,  and  his  grandfather  won't 
let  him." 

"Why?"  said  Mrs.  Allday. 

"Can't  afford,  I  suppose,"  suggested  her  husband. 

"Willie  Benlow's  going,  and  Sam  says  he  ought 
to  go.  He  doesn't  want  to  go  to  work." 

"A  lot  o*  boys  want  to  go  all  right,  but  they  don't 
want  to  work,"  said  Mr.  Allday,  and  chuckled  until 
his  cough  stopped  him. 

"Would  you  like  to  go  to  the  Grammar  School?" 
said  Mr.  Merry. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  John.    "I  think  I  should." 

"They  get  better  chances  than  we  ever  did,  Tom." 
said  Mr.  Allday.  "I  was  only  eleven  when  I  left 
school.  I  can  remember  the  dav  as  well " 

They  understood  the  pause  which  followed.  They 
knew  the  story,  one  of  his  favourites;  it  was  one 
of  John's  favourites  too.  Mrs.  Allday  always 


22  LITTLE  HOUSES 

humoured  him ;  she  had  her  own  worn  stories,  and 
by  a  pleasant  little  convention  they  were  always 
enjoyed  as  new.  Mr.  Allday  explained  sometimes 
to  friends,  "My  father  never  told  more  than  three 
stories  in  his  life,  to  my  knowledge,  and  two  of 
'em  were  his  father's;  but  I  often  think  of  'em, 
and  enjoy  'em,  because  he  told  'em.  A  good  story 
is  like  a  top  hat:  it  may  go  out  of  fashion,  but  it'll 
stand  a  lot  of  decent  wear."  In  practice  he  followed 
his  own  maxim,  and  brought  out  his  team  of  stories 
only  on  feast  days.  Then  always  the  enjoyment 
of  the  day  gave  zest  to  the  story. 

"He  was  a  clever  man,  I  believe,  a  very  clever 
man." 

There  was  no  need  for  elaborate  exordium. 
John  understood  that  his  father  meant  his  old 
schoolmaster.  The  hearers'  pleasure  was  in  greet- 
ing the  prompt  arrival  of  the  expected. 

"Very  well  liked,  he  was,  by  the  farmers  and 
the  gentry  round  about — he  was  such  splendid  com- 
pany. Many  a  night  he'd  be  invited  out,  and  drop 
by  the  side  of  the  hedge  on  the  way  home,  and 
somebody  get  him  along.  The  drink  that  man  could 
carry  was  something  astonishing,  I  believe.  We 
lads  always  knew  when  he'd  had  one  of  his  special 
nights,  he  was  so  crabby  the  next  day.  Less  than 
a  word  would  set  him  off " 

The  story  was  safely  on  its  way.  John  never 
asked  himself  why  he  enjoyed  this  one  so  much. 
It  was  too  great  a  task  for  his  imagination  unaided 
to  understand  his  father's  having  been  a  boy  like 
himself.  But  the  story  he  understood;  he  saw  his 
own  self  acting  in  it. 

"I  never  did  like  geography.  We  had  to  come 
out  to  the  floor,  and  point  to  places  on  the  map — 
Europe  it  was.  Many  a  time  I  knew,  only  I  couldn't 
get  the  place  fast  enough,  and  down  I  went.  I 
went  down  that  time,  I  tell  you,  flat,  with  the 


HOME  23 

wooden  pointer  whacked  across  my  head.  He 
never  intended  to  do  it,  only  for  his  temper,  and 
the  drink  hanging  on  him.  I  dare  say  he  was  as 
much  frightened  as  I  was  hurt.  It  was  the  blood 
that  frightened  me.  He  sent  me  out  with  another 
boy  to  wash  my  head  at  the  pump,  'and  then  I'll 
put  some  plaster  on,'  he  said.  But  I  wouldn't  go 
in  again.  'You  get  my  books  at  playtime,'  I  said. 
'If  ever  I  go  in  there  again,  I'll  murder  him.'  And 
I  tell  you  I  meant  it.  I  never  hated  anybody  as  I 
hated  that  old  devil." 

John  grinned.    His  mother  frowned  at  him. 

"Off  home  I  went  with  my  books.  'What's  the 
matter  ?'  said  mother.  'I've  left,'  I  said,  and  I  threw 
my  books  down  and  showed  her  my  head.  She  was 
for  going  off  at  once,  only  there  was  father's  dinner 
to  get  ready.  Oh!  he  was  in  a  fine  temper  when 
he  came.  'I'll  take  you  back,  and  make  him  apolo- 
gize,' he  said.  But  I  wouldn't  go  back.  I  meant 
it.  A  coach  and  four  couldn't  ha'  dragged  me. 
Before  my  father  was  back  from  his  work  at  night 
I'd  been  up  to  Jenkins's  farm  three  miles  off,  and 
got  a  job  minding  cows — a  pound  for  six  months, 
and  all  found.  'You'll  get  back  to  school,  mind, 
in  the  winter  months,'  my  father  said.  But  I  knew 
well  I  shouldn't. 

"They  were  putting  the  line  down  that  year.  I 
used  to  go  and  watch  the  gangs.  As  soon  as  my 
six  months  was  up,  and  I'd  taken  my  sovereign  home 
to  mother  safe  in  my  boot,  I  went  off  and  found 
the  gaffer.  'Do  you  want  a  sharp  lad,  mister?'  I 
said.  I'd  practised  that  over  and  over  a  hundred 
times  or  more.  I  was  that  anxious  I  told  a  lie  about 
my  age.  He  took  me  on  as  a  nipper,  handing  spikes 
and  cushions  to  the  platelayers,  and  going  to  the 
blacksmith's  with  tools. 

"I  never  harboured  evil  against  anybody  but  the 
one  man.  'When  I  get  your  size,'  I  vowed  many 


24  LITTLE  HOUSES 

a  time,  as  though  I'd  got  him  already,  'I'll  lay  you 
out  over  the  head  just  as  you  did  me.' 

"Poor  fellow,  he  was  got  lying  in  a  ditch  half 
full  o'  water — some  tinkers  found  him.  And  a 
clever  man,  mind  you,  only  for  the  drink." 

John  was  enjoying  himself,  and  not  content 
that  the  story  should  end  here.  He  wanted  full 
measure  now. 

"But  you  did  go  to  school,  father,  didn't  you?" 
he  exclaimed. 

"I  did,  my  lad,"  said  his  father,  delighted  at  the 
effect  of  his  story,  "in  a  barn,  fifteen  of  us  at  the 
start,  a  penny  a  night,  and  find  our  own  candles, 
and  paper,  and  ink,  and  books,  and  everything. 
Three  winters  I  had.  Mr.  Horden  let  us  have  the 
barn  and  benches  for  nothing,  and  old  Thomson, 
the  Scotch  gardener  on  Parland's  estate,  taught  us; 
he'd  been  a  schoolmaster  in  his  younger  day,  so 
they  said.  He  was  a  scholar.  He  taught  us  up  to 
long  division  of  money,  and  counting  weights.  We 
used  to  get  the  Times  to  read  after  the  people  in 
the  big  house  had  done  with  it.  I  bought  that  'His- 
tory of  England'  through  him,  so  much  a  week. 
I  know  I  was  a  good  while  paying  it  off." 

John  thought  proudly  of  the  row  of  black  leather 
covered  volumes  in  the  parlour  bookcase.  He 
looked  at  the  engravings  sometimes  on  wet  Sunday 
afternoons.  He  knew  some  of  the  names  from  his 
school  lessons.  He  knew  decimals,  more  than  his 
father  had  ever  learnt;  yet  there  was  something 
splendid  in  the  story  of  his  father's  simple  educa- 
tion which  roused  his  pride. 

"Ah,  the  young  folks  don't  value  education 
nowadays.  .They  get  it  too  cheap,"  said  Mr. 
Merry. 

"Is  it  cheap  at  the  Grammar  School?"  asked 
John,  with  boyish  irrelevance. 

Tom  Merry  laughed. 


HOME  25 

"He's  got  it  on  his  mind,  you  see." 

"The  point  is,"  said  Mr.  Allday,  "if  we  were  to 
scrape  a  bit  and  send  him,  would  he  value  it?" 

"I  should,  father!"  said  John  enthusiastically. 

"It's  for  gentlemen's  sons,"  said  his  prudent 
mother. 

"I'm  a  gentleman,"  said  Mr.  Allday.  "I  pay 
twenty  shillings  in  the  pound." 

He  pushed  back  his  chair,  and  the  others  rose 
with  him.  John  glanced  at  each  in  turn,  but  did  not 
venture  to  say  anything.  When  his  father  and  Mr. 
Merry  had  gone  to  the  parlour,  he  lingered,  hoping 
that  he  might  coax  his  mother  into  his  own  enthu- 
siasm. She  refused  to  listen,  and  sent  him  after 
the  others  while  she  washed  up  the  tea  things. 

Mr.  Allday  did  not  attempt  to  smoke  again. 
John  listened  intently  at  first,  in  the  hope  of  hearing 
another  story,  but  the  talk  was  politics,  and  then 
engineering  technicalities,  and  he  lost  interest.  He 
looked  at  his  prize,  turning  the  pages  at  haphazard, 
and  reading  here  and  there  where  a  paragraph 
caught  his  attention.  He  was  for  a  moment  inter- 
ested to  learn  that  the  great  Doctor  Livingstone 
had  gone  to  work  in  a  cotton  factory  when  he  was 
ten  years  old,  and  had  taught  himself  Latin  in  his 
spare  time,  and  studied  natural  history.  Then  he 
was  attracted  by  the  story  of  Thomas  Edward,  the 
naturalist.  Into  his  memory  came  the  picnics  and 
holidays  he  had  enjoyed  with  his  father  and  mother. 
At  first  he  had  accepted  as  quite  natural  that  his 
father  should  be  able  to  name  nearly  all  the  flowers 
and  birds,  and  find  the  nests  so  easily.  It  had  sur- 
prised him  later  to  find  that  others  didn't  know,  and 
in  the  zest  of  this  esoteric  knowledge  he  had  striven 
for  reputation  among  his  playmates. 

The  last  paragraph  stirred  him  to  wonder. 

"He  did  not  make  his  love  for  natural  history  an 
excuse  for  neglecting  his  work.  As  a  shoemaker 


26  LITTLE  HOUSES 

he  was  both  skilful  and  diligent.  His  is  indeed  a 
noble  life,  which  every  boy  should  read  and  imitate 
as  far  as  he  can.  Few  men  in  any  station  have  done 
better  than  Thomas  Edward;  and  in  the  course  of 
time  people  came  to  understand  his  high  character 
and  great  ability." 

John  did  not  understand  why  Thomas  Edward 
was  alongside  men  like  Livingstone  and  Columbus. 
He  suspected  the  moralizing,  and  thought  of  Sam's 
words:  "They  always  put  you  off  with  sayings." 

His  thoughts  drifted.  A  few  days  ago  he  had 
believed  that  after  Christmas  he  would  go  to  wrork 
at  Binnses.  His  mother  had  known  the  second  Mrs. 
Binns  from  her  cradle,  and  Old  Gentleman  Binns 
always  stopped  to  speak.  Now,  however,  all  his 
ambition  was  for  going  to  the  Grammar  School. 
Vaguely  he  felt  that  it  might  be  the  threshold  of  a 
great  career ;  its  vagueness  enhanced  it  mightily,  for 
near  at  hand  his  quiet  nature  would  have  shrunk 
from  the  sudden  thought  of  change. 

They  had  supper  early.  John  was  allowed  to  have 
two  slices  of  cold  mutton,  and  a  pickled  walnut, 
on  a  plate  of  his  own.  Truly  he  was  growing  up. 
Afterwards  he  went  out  for  a  while,  and  met  Sam 
going  home.  He  told  all  his  new  aspirations  in  a 
burst  of  confidence,  so  sure  he  was  of  sympathy. 
Sam's  indifference  hurt  him  acutely,  and  his  enthu- 
siasm waned.  Fortunately  his  pride  was  roused 
again  by  the  honour  of  being  invited  to  go  with  his 
father  to  see  Mr.  Merry  off  by  the  bus  to  Selbridge. 
The  three  of  them  went  into  the  "Bull"  for  a  fare- 
well glass;  John  had  shandygaff,  and  the  barmaid 
chaffed  him  about  the  fine  head  she  put  on  it  for 
him.  He  blushed.  It  was  good  to  be  growing  up 
to  dignity. 

Ten  o'clock  had  struck  when  they  returned. 
John  went  straight  to  bed.  He  said  his  prayers 
without  hurrying,  but  his  thoughts  slipped  away 


HOME  27 

from  the  words.  He  recollected  what  Sam  had  said, 
doubting  prayer,  in  the  afternoon,  and  he  felt  that 
he  ought  not  to  think  of  that.  When  it  refused 
to  be  pushed  away  he  fought  it  with  a  memory 
of  his  own  childhood:  he  had  once  prayed  for  an 
engine  as  a  Christmas  present,  and  sure  enough  he 
received  one.  He  did  not  think  how  he  had  prayed 
at  his  mother's  knee.  The  recollection  pleased  him ; 
it  proved  well  the  efficacy  of  prayer.  All  this  time 
his  lips  had  shaped  the  words  of  his  own 
prayer,  and  he  was  at  the  end.  There  he  hesitated 
an  instant,  and  then  added  resolutely:  "And, 
please,  I  should  like  to  go  to  the  Grammar  School. 
Amen." 

Five  minutes  afterwards  he  was  sound  asleep, 
without  having  given  another  thought  to  his 
request. 

Downstairs  in  the  sitting-room  his  parents 
stayed  to  talk  over  Tom  Merry's  visit  before  they 
went  to  bed,  and  their  promised  few  minutes  grew 
towards  the  hour. 

Mrs.  Allday  was  a  cottager's  daughter,  brought 
up  in  the  country  on  the  slopes  under  Selvalley 
Beacon.  Her  father  had  been  well  off  for  a  labourer, 
and  a  lucky  chance  had  brought  him  to  favour 
with  his  employer,  Mr.  Horden.  He  had  carried 
Miss  Horden  nearly  a  mile  across  the  fields  when 
she  had  been  thrown  from  her  pony  and  had  hurt 
her  leg.  She  was  Mrs.  Kingsnorton  now,  married 
to  a  prosperous  iron  merchant,  living  in  a  big  house 
on  a  knoll  above  the  Bristol  Road.  She  called 
regularly  on  Mrs.  Allday  in  her  parish  visits: 
"Very  nice  and  pleasant — quite  the  lady."  Some- 
times she  brought  her  daughters,  and  on  those 
days  Mrs.  Allday  was  roused  to  greater  admira- 
tion and  garrulity  afterwards.  "It's  nice  to  see 
anybody  so  nice,"  she  explained  to  friends 
impressively. 


28  LITTLE  HOUSES 

Thomas  Allday  had  met  his  wife  Susan  while  he 
was  a  railway  worker.  Acquaintance  had  been 
very  slow  in  ripening  to  quiet  courtship — he  was 
no  ladies'  man,  and  she  was  without  guile.  Then 
he  had  gone  to  the  Selbridge  Iron  and  Steel  Com- 
pany's works,  tempted  by  the  high  wages  to  be  had. 
It  was  heavy  work  in  the  rolling  mill,  working 
stripped  at  the  furnace,  wielding  the  great  tongs, 
snatching  the  bars,  a-sparkle  along  the  iron  floor, 
to  the  clanging  rolls,  and  away  again,  sweating 
with  the  labour,  and  racked  by  piercing  winter 
draughts.  But  the  money  was  good.  Every  week 
he  went  to  the  bank  as  regularly  as  he  took  his 
pay  at  the  office  window.  The  puddlers  made  the 
most  money.  Many  a  story  was  told  of  their  ad- 
ventures in  the  great  days  when  the  railway  first 
came.  "Where's  the  next  train  go  to?  I'll  go 
there."  They  took  their  hats  to  hold  their  money 
on  pay-day,  so  went  report.  The  most  famous 
of  them  was  still  alive  in  the  Selbridge  workhouse. 
Thomas  Allday  had  sworn  by  Brunei's  broad  gauge 
and  his  disc  and  crossbar  signals,  and  was  yet  con- 
vinced of  his  innate  superiority.  To-night  he  had 
to  talk  of  all  these  things  in  turn  as  recollections 
rose. 

"No,"  said  he,  at  his  wife's  suggestion  that  John 
might  go  on  the  railway.  "We  might  get  him 
into  Binnses — if  he  don't  go  to  the  Grammar 
School." 

"We  could  afford  it,  couldn't  we?  There's 
scholarships,"  said  Mrs.  Allday. 

"If  my  boy  goes  he  shall  pay,"  said  Mr.  Allday 
proudly.  "We'll  have  no  charity." 

"He  will  go  then?" 

"It  might  do  him  good." 

"It  would  be  nice  to  think  of  him  not  having  to 
go  to  work  at  six  o'clock  of  a  morning." 

"Ah.  I  think  we'll  let  him,"  said  Mr.  Allday, 


HOME  29 

quietly.  "I  don't  suppose  we  shall  ever  regret 
it." 

He  rose  to  go  to  bed.  His  wife  went  to  see  that 
the  back  door  was  safe  for  the  night;  she  always 
did  this  now,  since  his  first  winter  illness. 

When  she  went  upstairs  with  her  candle  she 
paused  at  John's  door.  If  he  were  awake  she 
might  tell  him  the  good  news.  Very  cautiously  she 
turned  the  knob,  and  the  candle  flame  threw  a  shaft 
of  light  across  the  patchwork  quilt,  her  own  work 
thirty  years  ago.  Her  son's  breathing  rose  and  fell 
steadily  in  the  quiet  darkness.  "Bless  the  lad,  he's 
asleep,"  she  thought,  and  smiled  as  she  shut  the 
door  again.  Her  mind  saw  him  still  a  tiny  baby, 
as  he  had  lain,  sleeping  innocently  in  his  cot.  Her 
first  boy  had  died  before  John  was  born.  Fidelity 
was  her  husband's  claim.  Her  son  now  bore  all 
her  hopes. 


CHAPTER  III 

BINNSES 

JOHN  always  found  Saturday  to  be  the  most 
interesting  day  of  the  week;  it  had  so 
much  variety.  His  mother  always  insisted  on 
his  getting  up  early,  so  that  she  might  get  on 
with  her  work;  but  that  was  on  Friday  night,  and 
he  generally  managed  to  steal  an  extra  half -hour 
on  the  following  morning.  On  rare  occasions, 
if  he  had  a  cold,  he  had  breakfast  in  bed — those 
were  memorable  days.  Dinner  was  a  makeshift, 
but  the  day  was  pay-day,  and  there  would  always 
be  something  good  for  tea.  In  summer  they  had 
occasional  picnics  and  fishing  excursions.  His 
father  was  an  indifferent  angler,  but  the  flowers 
and  birds  never  failed,  nor  did  mother's  store  of 
dainties.  Father  always  made  the  same  joke, 
wherever  they  went  for  tea:  he  felt  faint,  and  had 
to  have  brandy  or  rum,  only  a  "thimbleful,"  in  his 
second  cup.  They  came  home  together  in  the 
warm  dusk,  tired  and  happy,  and  slept  soundly  into 
Sunday  morning.  In  winter,  father  sometimes 
took  his  old  muzzle-loader  and  had  a  half-day's 
shooting,  especially  when  a  crisp  frost  followed 
snow.  John  was  not  often  allowed  to  go,  and  was 
all  the  more  eager  when  opportunity  came.  He 
never  forgot  the  first  time  he  was  allowed  to  shoot, 
creeping  with  his  father  behind  a  hedge,  to  where 

30 


BINNSES  31 

rabbits  were  sitting  out.  He  had  assured  his 
father  he  knew  exactly  how  to  do  it;  he  had  had 
ha'penny  shots  down  the  tube  galleries  at  the  Pie 
Fair.  But  now  in  his  excitement  he  forgot  all  his 
proud  knowledge,  and  all  the  advice.  The  gun 
kicked  his  triggerhand  against  his  nose,  bringing 
tears  and  imaginary  blood,  and  a  bruise  on  his 
shoulder  which  he  exhibited  proudly  at  night  to 
his  image  in  the  looking-glass,  for  the  rabbit  was 
killed,  its  body  in  the  brown  stew  jar,  and  its 
skin  hanging  on  a  nail  waiting  for  the  rag  and  bone 
man. 

His  father  had  lost  much  of  his  gaiety  since  his 
illness,  and  Saturday's  procedure  became  more 
fixed.  Dinner  was  easily  prepared,  then  the  biggest 
saucepan  was  put  on  the  fire  to  heat  water  for 
father's  bath,  and  clean  underclothes  decked  a 
chair-back  before  the  fire.  Out  came  the  same  joke 
every  Saturday:  "I  see  you've  got  my  slippers  to 
warm;  it's  a  sign  it's  pay-day."  He  handed  all  his 
money  to  his  wife — John  often  wondered  how 
much  it  was — and  then  received  his  week's  pocket 
money,  "for  being  a  good  boy."  After  dinner  he 
sat  by  the  fire  with  his  jacket  off,  and  smoked,  even 
now  a  whiff  or  two,  or  strolled  to  and  fro  in  the 
garden.  Then  the  saucepan  was  emptied  steaming 
into  the  bath  on  the  hearthrug,  and  John  was  sent 
out  to  play.  At  half-past  four  his  mother  had  the 
tea  ready,  and  he  was  sent  upstairs  to  call  his 
father.  When  they  were  first  married  she  would  go 
and  wake  him  with  a  kiss.  She  always  sent  John 
now. 

The  dreadful  necessity  of  being  in  early  from 
play,  the  bath  on  the  hearthrug,  a  clean  nightshirt, 
sausages  for  Sunday  morning  breakfast:  all  these 
in  John's  memory  were  inseparable  from  thoughts 
of  the  week-end. 

This  autumn  there  was  a  big  crop  of  haws  in  the 


32  LITTLE  HOUSES 

lanes.  "I  hope  it  won't  be  a  hard  winter,  tor  my 
husband's  sake,"  said  Mrs.  Allday.  The  long 
summer  had  not  taken  his  cough  entirely. 

It  was  Saturday,  the  fourth  of  November.  Guy 
Fawkes  celebrations  were  being  held  a  day  early. 
Mrs.  Allday  had  no  thought  for  these.  There  had 
been  a  damp  fog  for  several  days,  and  she  was 
anxious  about  her  husband's  chest.  "It's  a  good 
job  it's  Saturday.  It  will  give  him  the  week-end," 
she  declared.  There  had  been  a  light  hoar  frost 
at  dawn,  and  a  white  mist.  By  breakfast-time  the 
frost  was  gone,  leaving  water  drops  among  the  cab- 
bages, and  on  the  Michaelmas  daisies,  and  hanging 
from  the  black  twigs  of  the  hedge  and  the  wooden 
railings.  Starlings  clucked  and  whistled  quietly  in 
the  ash  at  the  end  of  the  gardens,  looking  like  round 
tree  growths,  and  magnified  by  the  mist.  The  last 
nasturtiums  were  bedraggled,  the  soil  black  and 
sodden.  At  midday  the  red  face  of  the  sun  looked 
down  for  a  while. 

John  was  out  all  the  morning  at  work.  Old 
Gentleman  Binns  had  stopped  to  speak  to  Mrs. 
Allday  one  Sunday  morning  after  church.  John 
was  with  her. 

"He's  getting  a  big  lad,"  commented  the  old 
gentleman.  "You'll  have  a  job  to  keep  him  out  of 
mischief,  I  know.  Still  at  school,  isn't  he?  We 
could  do  with  a  handy  lad  o'  Saturdays.  You  might 
send  him  around,  missus.  ..." 

So  John  went  to  work  every  Saturday  at  Binnses. 
His  mother  would  not  even  think  of  opposing  the 
old  gentleman's  suggestion.  His  wish  was  law,  not 
only  to  her  but  to  the  best  part  of  the  town.  She 
explained  to  friends  that  she  was  doing  it  to  oblige 
Mr.  Binns.  When  John  went  to  the  Grammar 
School  he  would  be  at  school  on  Saturday  morn- 
ings. He  had  had  an  offer  of  Saturday  work  from 
Mr.  Peckle,  the  grocer,  but  his  mother  wouldn't 


BINNSES  33 

hear  of  her  boy's  working  like  that,  at  a  grocer's.  For 
Old  Gentleman  Binns  it  was  different,  of  course. 

When  Mr.  Binns  was  young  he  had  received  the 
courtesy  title  of  Gentleman  Binns.  He  was  seventy- 
four  years  old  now,  and  had  become  Old  Gentle- 
man Binns,  the  town's  leading  citizen,  an  alderman, 
twice  mayor,  and  the  model  of  honest  gentility.  He 
was  not  a  native ;  he  had  come  as  a  young  engineer 
and  had  married  the  daughter  of  the  owner  of  the 
Orchard  Works,  now  "Binnses":  All  descriptions 
of  Wrought  Iron  Fittings  for  Gas,  Steam  and 
Water.  Galvanized  Tubes  and  Fittings.  Brass 
Fittings,  Stocks  and  Dies,  etc.  Unpretentious  and 
old-fashioned,  it  was  a  model  works.  The  old 
gentleman  knew  every  man  on  the  premises ;  all  were 
bound  to  him  by  a  personal  loyalty,  and  he  was 
always  ready  to  receive  the  least  of  them,  to  listen 
to  any  grievance  or  any  suggestion  concerning  the 
trade.  They  made  fun  of  his  eccentricities,  but 
they  respected  him.  Many  were  devoted  to  him. 
In  the  works,  and  on  the  magistrates'  bench  he 
was  a  terror  to  idlers  and  vagabonds.  He  had  a 
wonderful  memory  for  faces ;  it  was  his  boast  that 
he  never  forgot  one  he  had  once  known. 
He  had  one  son,  a  general  favourite.  His  wife 
died  soon  after  the  boy  was  born.  When  the  son 
grew  up  and  married,  he  stayed  in  the  big  house 
with  his  father.  He  was  killed  in  the  hunting- 
field,  and  all  Pedley  Hill  was  out  at  his  funeral. 
His  widow  died,  and  the  old  gentleman  was  left 
with  his  grandson  alone.  At  sixty-three  years  old 
he  married  again,  choosing  a  cottager's  daughter, 
and  sending  her  abroad  to  a  convent  school  for  a 
year  before  the  wedding.  She  was  only  twenty- 
three.  It  might  have  been  scandalous  in  another, 
but  Pedley  Hill  accepted  Old  Gentleman  Binns's 
choice,  and  great  public  festivities  marked  the 
wedding.  Now  he  was  a  widower  again.  His 


34  LITTLE  HOUSES 

grandson  was  in  London,  estranged  from  the  old 
gentleman,  it  was  believed,  and  seldom  heard  of. 

Everybody  knew  him.  In  local  politics  he  was 
a  privileged  leader,  despotic,  yet  kindly.  At 
seventy-four  he  still  showed  all  his  six  feet  of 
height,  with  no  sign  of  drooping.  It  was  obvious 
even  now  that  he  had  been  a  dandy  years  ago.  His 
top  hat  shone;  his  coat  was  closely  buttoned  to 
his  figure;  he  always  wore  gloves  out  of  doors,  and 
carried  a  gold-headed  cane.  He  had  a  good- 
humoured,  ruddy  face,  a  prominent  nose,  and  white 
side  whiskers;  and  when  he  spoke  it  was  in  a 
loud,  clear  voice,  unnecessarily  loud,  one  of  his 
deliberately  exaggerated  eccentricities.  He  was 
still  a  member  of  a  good  club  in  London. 
Congratulations  and  presents  poured  in  for  his 
birthday,  and  the  works  celebrated  it  with  a  dinner 
and  smoking  concert.  The  town  worthies  shook 
their  heads  and  prophesied  a  poor  future  for  Binnses 
when  he  should  be  gone. 

To-day  John  came  home  in  high  enthusiasm  for 
dinner. 

"The  bonfire's  laid,  with  bricks  all  round,  ever  so 
big,"  he  explained,  with  suitable  gestures,  to  his 
mother.  "I've  seen  the  guy  in  the  time-office, 
and  the  fireworks — boxes  of  'em.  Mr.  Evans  says 
I  can  go." 

"You'll  have  to  come  straight  home,"  said  his 
mother. 

He  didn't  like  to  be  reminded  of  his  bath. 

The  annual  bonfire  had  been  inaugurated  by  Mr. 
Binns  as  a  treat  for  his  son  and  the  boy's  friends. 
Later  it  had  been  for  his  grandson.  It  was  held 
still  as  a  treat  for  the  young  folk  of  all  the  better 
famiHes  in  the  district. 

John's  father  was  late  in  coming  for  dinner. 
When  at  last  he  arrived  he  had  to  stand  by  the 
door  and  fight  for  breath,  gurgling  and  wheezing 


BINNSES  33 

in  his  windpipe,  while  his  neck  and  face  changed 
colour  to  a  dark  crimson.    John  was  afraid. 

"You'll  go  straight  to  bed  after  your  bath,"  said 
Mrs.  Allday. 

In  a  moment  he  recovered,  and  sat  down. 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  said.     "I'm  going  out." 

She  was  startled. 

"You  won't  have  your  bath,  then?"  she  sug- 
gested. 

"Yes,  I  shall,"  said  he. 

"Not  and  go  out  after?" 

"I  shall  see." 

"Are  you  mad  ?"  she  exclaimed,  horrified. 

"I  shall  see,  I  tell  you." 

She  understood  that  argument  was  useless 
against  his  obstinacy.  Nevertheless,  she  tried  it; 
she  couldn't  sit  silent.  When  he  rose  and  took 
down  his  gun  to  examine  it,  she  attacked  him 
passionately: 

"Going  shooting  with  a  low,  wicked  lot  o'  fellows 
— on  a  day  like  this,  above  all — and  that  cough  on 
you — it's  suicide.  Don't  come  to  me.  I  shall  say, 
'You  deserve  all  you've  got'  ..." 

John  guessed  where  his  father  was  going.  He 
was  afraid  to  ask.  There  was  to  be  a  big  pigeon- 
shooting  match  at  the  "Heron"  to-day,  and  a  sweep- 
stake, and  this  evening  a  big  pigeon-pie  supper.  It 
was  one  of  the  sporting  events  of  the  year. 

All  the  way  back  to  work  he  thought  of  the 
shooting  match,  and  the  sport  he  might  have  if  he 
were  only  a  little  more  grown-up. 

Dinnses  was  the  only  works  of  importance  in 
Pedley  Hill,  and  was  accepted  as  an  integral  part 
of  the  town,  although  it  was  comparatively  of 
modern  growth.  The  name,  Orchard  Works,  and 
Orchard  Street,  told  of  an  orchard  which  was  still 
within  the  memory  of  old  men.  The  present 
landlord  of  the  "Bull"  had  married  the  daughter 


36  LITTLE  HOUSES 

of  the  last  tenant  of  Orchard  Farm,  before  the  land 
had  been  sold  at  the  breaking-tip  of  the  estate. 
Fifty  years  ago  the  town  had  not  extended  on  this 
eastern  side.  In  the  private  parlour  at  the  "Bull" 
a  lease  was  still  preserved  of  the  Orchard  Farm, 
dated  1804.  It  was  difficult  now  to  believe  that 
it  was  less  than  eighty  years  old,  with  its  guarded 
privileges  of  feudalism,  its  rights  of  venery  and 
hunting  for  the  landowner,  "his  followers  and 
retinue,  with  horses  and  dogs,  at  all  times  of  the 
year,  there  to  hunt,  hawk,  fish  and  fowl,  at  his  free 
will  and  pleasure,  without  restraint." 

These  things  had  no  interest  for  John — their 
phraseology  repelled  him.  Binnses  as  he  knew  it 
was  a  whole  country  of  adventure.  His  duty 
was  to  run  errands  and  make  himself  useful  for  the 
household,  to  help  the  donkey-boy,  sometimes  to 
drive  the  donkey  and  little  cart  himself.  Several 
times  he  had  been  in  the  big  house,  and  he  was 
able  to  wander  in  the  gardens,  the  paddock,  and 
the  stables,  to  steal  potatoes  from  the  pigs'  store 
and  roast  them  at  the  harness-room  fire;  and  on 
Saturday  afternoons  he  had  wonderful  adventures 
alone  in  the  empty  works.  Before  midday  all 
was  busy,  the  boilers  hissing  quietly,  the  great 
flywheel  spinning  against  the  whitewashed  wall  of 
the  fitting-shop.  The  engine-house  was  full  of  the 
hot  smell  of  grease;  John  loved  to  watch  the  slid- 
ing rods,  and  the  fussy  governors  spinning.  In  the 
smithy  the  men  sang  at  their  work;  the  tongs 
hissed  in  the  water,  the  breeze  fires  glowed  in  the 
draughts  of  the  bellows;  up  and  down  swung 
the  sledges,  as  though  they  had  no  weight  at  all, 
and  tap,  tap,  went  the  fitting-makers'  hammers, 
busily.  But  in  the  afternoon  the  quiet  was  awe- 
some, unnatural.  Water  trickled  eerily  in  the 
troughs;  crickets  chirped  on  the  warm  hearths 
The  air  bore  odours  from  the  breeze-loads,  from 


BINNSES  37 

the  rusty  iron,  the  milky  galvanizing  water,  the 
grease,  with  an  added  ^indefinable  odour  of  busy 
humanity.  A'  wonderful  place  in  the  stillness  of 
Saturday  afternoon. 

The  regular  donkey-boy  was  ill,  and  John  had  to 
take  the  donkey  and  cart  alone.  Some  things  had 
to  be  delivered  at  a  warehouse  in  the  Bristol  Road. 
John  was  looking  forward  to  the  trip,  which  was 
soon  magnified  to  an  adventure,  with  the  respon- 
sibility adding  zest  to  the  fine  independence  of  it. 
When  he  was  summoned  to  the  big  house  and  told 
by  one  of  the  maids  that  he  had  to  go  to  Sele 
House  and  bring  a  parcel  back,  he  was  exultant  in 
rejoicing,  for  Sele  House  was  on  the  other  side 
of  the  railway  line,  not  far  from  the  "Heron."  By 
fetching  a  wide  curve  on  his  return  he  might  have 
a  few  minutes  among  the  pigeon  shooters.  Better 
still,  he  might  see  them  first;  dusk  would  fall  very 
early  to-day,  and  the  sport  might  be  over  if  he 
waited  too  long.  The  rain  was  falling  now  in  a 
thin,  shifting  drizzle  of  mist,  very  uncomfortable  to 
those  who  had  no  grand  sport  like  pigeon-shooting 
to  see. 

He  took  the  boxes  to  the  warehouse,  and  soured 
the  watchman's  temper  with  his  loud  impatience. 
Then  he  set  off  for  the  "Heron,"  calling  encourage- 
ment to  the  donkey,  louder  and  louder  as  he  passed 
under  the  railway  bridge  and  came  near.  The 
adventure  was  like  a  merry  sort  of  truancy.  He 
tickled  the  donkey  into  a  jerky  gallop  with  the  butt 
of  the  whip — experiments  had  taught  him  the 
futility  of  whacking. 

The  "Heron"  was  a  famous  old  inn  near  the 
river.  The  railway  cut  it  off  from  the  town,  and 
its  custom  still  depended  on  its  sporting  fame  won 
in  the  cock-fighting  days.  The  walls  of  the  low 
rooms  were  decked  with  pictures  of  famous  pugil- 
ists, cock-fighters,  rabbit  coursers,  pedestrians, 


38  LITTLE  HOUSES 

ratting  dogs,  racehorses,  jockeys,  and  personages 
with  similar  claims  to  immortality.  All  the  sporting 
gentry  of  the  district,  prosperous  and  ragged,  made 
it  their  resort.  Its  kitchen  still  maintained  Pedley 
Hill's  high  reputation  for  meat-pies.  There  was  a 
great  pie  supper  on  Pie  Fair  Saturday,  and  another 
on  Boxing  Day.  To-day's  sport  and  supper  rivalled 
those  of  the  other  great  days. 

John  saw  the  crowd  long  before  he  was  near 
enough  to  see  the  sport.  He  heard  the  shots,  but 
saw  no  pigeons,  and  his  eagerness  grew  and  grew. 
A  group  of  loungers  laughed  at  the  donkey's  gallop, 
and  John  grinned  merrily  at  them  in  return. 

The  crowd  was  assembled  in  a  field  beside  the 
river,  at  the  rear  of  the  public-house.  It  was  im- 
possible to  approach  near  enough  with  the  donkey; 
nothing  was  to  be  seen  even  by  standing  on  the 
seat  of  the  cart.  John  drove  beyond  the  public- 
house  and  pulled  up  in  the  lane.  There  was  no 
danger  of  the  donkey's  running  away;  he  had  left 
him  many  a  time  before;  besides,  there  was  nobody 
about,  they  were  all  at  the  shooting.  He  stroked 
the  donkey,  and  told  him  very  emphatically, 
"Whoa!"  Then  he  gave  an  unnecessarily 
stealthy  look  round,  slipped  through  the  thin 
hedge,  and  trotted  across  the  field.  If  anyone 
asked  his  business  he  would  say  he  had  come  for 
his  father. 

The  "Heron"  held  sparrow  shooting  matches  and 
sweepstakes  every  Saturday  throughout  the  season, 
and  often  on  Saint  Monday  afternoons,  when  the 
workmen  generally  took  a  half -holiday.  Sparrows 
were  cheap — a  penny  each.  A  pigeon  cost  six- 
pence. The  shooters  couldn't  afford  to  let  a  pigeon 
escape,  and  fly  back  home  when  they  had  paid 
sixpence  for  it.  That  wouldn't  be  right.  Besides, 
what  about  the  pigeons  for  the  famous  pie  supper? 
Were  they  to  be  bought  twice  over?  Certainly 


BINNSES  39 

not!  The  sportsman  therefore  stood  at  his  mark, 
just  in  front  of  the  puller,  and  on  both  sides  of  him 
in  the  rear  was  arranged  in  an  arc  the  huge  con- 
gregation of  his  brother  sportsmen.  "Ready?" 
.  .  .  "Ah!"  .  .  .  "Pull!"  Over  went  the  trap, 
up  went  the  pigeon  with  a  clatter,  and  the  gunner 
had  both  barrels  at  it.  If  the  bird  didn't  come 
down  with  a  thud  or  topple,  badly  hit,  then  it 
was  every  sportsman's  duty  to  see  that  it  didn't 
escape.  Bang!  bang!  went  the  guns,  like  the  fusi- 
lade  of  a  company  of  volunteers  at  rifle  practice. 
Sometimes  the  bird  wouldn't  rise  when  the  trap 
came  over.  It  would  stare  about,  bewildered;  if 
it  pecked  at  the  ground  there  were  roars  of 
laughter  at  its  cheek.  Stones  and  lumps  of  turf 
were  thrown  to  startle  it  into  flight.  Then  the 
gunner  had  the  right  to  refuse  it  as  a  sitter,  and 
demand  another  bird.  All  the  congregation  there- 
upon advanced  to  the  charge,  and  blew  it  to  pieces 
as  it  rose.  Nobody  had  a  helping  of  pigeon  pie 
without  a  few  pellets  included.  It  was  a  proud  boast 
that  last  year  there  had  been  seven  dozen  birds, 
and  only  two  got  away.  One  of  those  was  fetched 
down  with  a  broken  wing  by  a  man  waiting  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river,  and  caught  after  a  chase 
by  some  boys,  who  ran  away  with  it.  Thus  were 
combined  sport  and  economy  with  general  satisfac- 
tion, except  that  of  the  man  who  had  sold  the 
pigeons  and  had  counted  on  half  a  dozen  escaping, 
at  least. 

John  managed  to  wriggle  into  a  good  position 
in  time  to  see  his  father  miss  his  bird  in  the  sweep- 
stake. A  great  howl  rose  from  the  crowd,  and  a 
furious  discharge  roared  from  the  other  guns. 
The  wretched  bird  turned  a  somersault,  struggled 
to  its  balance  again,  and  collapsed — hit  again. 
A  dog  started  out  to  retrieve  it.  The  men  took 
it  in  turn  with  their  dogs.  Only  one  pigeon  had 


40  LITTLE  HOUSES 

got  clear  away — one  had  been  retrieved  from  the 
river;  to-day  was  going  to  see  a  new  record. 
John  enjoyed  himself  lustily — there  was  so  much 
noise. 

He  had  no  idea  of  the  time.  There  was  always 
just  one  more  bird  to  see.  When  at  length  an  inter- 
val came,  he  had  a  hazy  dread  that  he  had  stayed 
longer  than  he  had  intended,  longer  than  he  ought 
to  have  stayed.  He  trotted  back  across  the 
field  and  crawled  through  the  hedge  again.  The 
donkey  was  gone!  He  had  a  nasty  empty  feeling 
inside,  and  for  an  instant  he  looked  round,  dazed, 
asking  himself  if  this  were  actually  the  place  where 
he  had  left  the  donkey.  Then  he  ran,  but  stopped 
after  a  few  yards.  Perhaps  it  wasn't  this  way  the 
donkey  had  gone ;  so  he  turned  and  ran  back.  Per- 
haps it  wasn't  that  way.  He  stopped  again,  and 
his  nose  tingled  with  starting  tears.  "Have  you 
seen  a  donkey,  mister?"  he  asked  the  first  man.  But 
the  man  had  been  with  his  week's  pay  in  the 
"Heron." 

"Ah,  lad,  hundreds  of  'em  in  my  day.  Have  you 
ever  seen  a  dead  un?" 

John  anxiously  explained  that  he  was  looking  for 
a  live  one. 

"Any  fool  can  see  a  live  un!  It's  the  dead  uns 
you  never  see." 

The  last  words  were  bawled  at  him  as  he  ran 
away.  Several  men  stood  joking  before  the  inn, 
and  they  all  had  seen  the  donkey  go.  "Yes — down 
there!"  .  .  .  "Run,  my  lad!"  .  .  .  "No,  not 
that  way,  down  there."  .  .  .  "Ah!"  .  .  .  "No!" 
.  .  .  John  saw  they  were  making  a  fool  of  him 
and  he  was  ready  to  cry  with  vexation.  If  the 
donkey  were  lost  he  would  get  the  sack;  he 
dared  not  go  back  without  it.  If  the  donkey  had 
run  off  home  alone,  he  would  get  the  sack  too,  for 
certain. 


BINNSES  41 

A  girl  with  a  blue  pinafore  was  walking  quietly 
along  the  road.  At  a  second  glance  John  saw  she 
was  Maggie  Wheatley,  and  his  hopes  danced. 

"Yes,  I  saw  some  boys  driving  it  up  there.  I 
think  they  turned  into  the  little  lane." 

John  ran  without  waiting  to  thank  her.  He 
hesitated  for  a  second  at  the  turning,  and  then  put 
out  all  his  speed.  Beyond  a  bend,  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away,  he  came  on  the  donkey,  grazing  quietly 
at  the  hedge-bank.  The  boys  had  disappeared. 
John  was  near  tears  again  with  his  relief.  He 
jumped  up  into  the  cart,  and  called  to  the  donkey: 
"Gee  up,  laddie!"  But  the  donkey  was  fractious, 
from  bad  treatment,  and  John  had  to  get  down 
again,  and  stroke  and  coax  him.  More  time  was 
wasted. 

Maggie  had  come  up  the  lane  to  see. 

"I've  found  him,"  cried  John  triumphantly. 
"Thanks !  I  was  in  a  terrible  way." 

She  smiled. 

"I  thought  it  looked  like  Binnses'  donkey!" 

She  turned  with  him  as  he  led  the  donkey 
back. 

"I've  been  out  nearly  all  morning  with  another 
girl  after  blackberries,"  she  explained.  "I  know 
they're  all  over,  very  near.  She  saw  her  father 
and  went  off.  I  was  talking  to  Sam  Bloom;  he 
went  into  the  'Heron.'  He  thinks  he's  a  man 
now." 

"I'm  going  to  Sele  House.  Would  you  like  a 
ride?"  said  John. 

She  jumped  up.  He  sat  beside  her,  and  coaxed 
the  donkey  into  a  trot. 

"Like  the  seaside,  isn't  it?"  said  Maggie,  enjoy- 
ing herself. 

"Rhyl,"  suggested  John. 

"I've  never  seen  the  seaside,"  said  Maggie, 
wistfully. 


42  LITTLE  HOUSES 

The  maid  at  Sele  House  told  John  that  the  parcel 
had  been  sent;  he  was  too  late. 

"I  shall  tell  'em  the  donkey  was  obstinate — got 
frightened,  eh?"  said  John  to  Maggie.  "I'm  going 
back  for  the  bonfire  after  tea.  It's  a  whopper." 

"Is  it  near  tea-time  now?"  said  Maggie.  "I'm 
hungry.  I  haven't  been  home  since  after  break- 
fast." 

John  stopped  at  the  first  huckster's  shop,  told 
Maggie  to  wait  a  minute,  and  came  out  with  a 
ha'porth  of  biscuits  wrapped  in  newspaper.  They 
were  his  favourite  biscuits,  the  shapes  of  all  the 
capital  letters  of  the  alphabet.  E  could  be  eaten 
into  F,  and  O  into  C,  and  there  were  other  games. 
Maggie  accepted  them  shyly  at  first,  but  her  hunger 
was  ravenous,  and  presently  John  began  to  regret 
his  generosity.  Nevertheless,  he  forced  away  his 
mean  thought,  and  atoned,  when  Maggie  was 
going. 

"Would  you  like  to  come  to  Binnses'  bonfire  to- 
night? If  you're  there  about  seven  o'clock,  outside, 
I  can  get  you  in.  You  can  slip  in  easy  in  the  dark. 
It'll  be  grand." 

"I  should  like  to,"  said  Maggie.  "Perhaps  mother 
won't  let  me  out,  though. 

"I  shan't  wait  after  seven,"  said  John,  with 
dignity. 

"I'll  try." 

She  ran  away  up  the  hill,  and  after  a  while  turned 
to  wave  her  hand.  In  that  gesture  were  all  her 
unsaid  thanks,  all  her  shy  gratitude.  John  smiled. 
He  had  made  somebody  grateful  to  him  to-day; 
it  was  only  Maggie  Wheatley,  but  there  was  a  fine 
satisfaction  in  his  heart. 

His  father  had  not  returned  when  John  arrived 
for  tea,  and  his  mother  was  worried.  He  said 
nothing;  it  would  not  be  wise  to  say  he  had 
been  near  the  "Heron";  his  mother  would  be 


BINNSES  43 

vexed,  if  not  angry,  he  knew,  and  he  dared  not 
risk  anything  which  might  lead  to  his  being  for- 
bidden to  go  to  the  bonfire.  It  was  ablaze  now. 
He  had  been  present  at  the  lighting  ceremony. 
Old  Mr.  Evans  the  coachman  and  Spence  the 
gardener  had  taken  the  guy  from  the  time  office, 
and  lifted  it  solemnly  into  its  place  on  the  fire,  while 
the  maids  giggled  approbation.  Then  the  match  had 
been  applied,  and  the  first  flames  rose  crack- 
ling. To  John  the  ceremony  was  of  the  nature  of 
a  sacerdotal  rite.  There  was  no  other  bonfire  in 
the  district  to  compare  with  Binnses'.  Thin  col- 
umns of  smoke  had  been  rising  here  and  there  from 
backyards  since  midday,  and  premature  squibs  and 
crackers  had  been  let  off  by  youngsters  who 
couldn't  wait.  Bands  of  urchins  had  paraded  the 
streets  in  fancy  costume,  with  real  guys,  and  shrill 
chanting: 


Remember,  remember  the  fifth  of  November, 

Gunpowder,  treason  and  plot. 
I  know  no  reason  why  gunpowder  treason 

Should  ever  be  forgot.  .  .  . 
A  penny  roll  to  feed  the  Pope, 
A  pennorth  o'  cheese  to  choke  him, 
A  pint  o'  beer  to  drink  his  health, 
And  a  faggot  o'  wood  to  burn  him.  .  .  . 


John  had  sung  the  whole  twenty  lines  over  and 
over,  last  year,  in  procession,  and  had  fought  in  a 
pitched  battle  with  a  rival  band,  to  their  utter  dis- 
comfiture and  the  loss  of  their  guy's  race.  Bat 
those  days  were  past.  He  wasn't  among  the  com- 
mon street-boys  now ;  he  was  going  to  Binnses'  bon- 
fire, among  the  gentry. 

His  mother  kept  him  a  long  time  after  tea, 
and  he  grew  impatient.  He  had  plenty  of  time, 
he  knew,  but  his  eagerness  was  beyond  control.  In 
thought  he  called  his  mother  stupid,  and  accused 


44  LITTLE  HOUSES 

her  of  keeping  him  on  purpose  to  annoy  him.  He 
could  not  have  understood  that  she  was  seeking  in 
his  companionship  the  means  to  quell  her  anxiety. 
When  he  managed  to  slip  away  he  ran  until  he  was 
out  of  breath.  The  afternoon's  wet  mist  was  rain 
now.  That  didn't  matter.  No  rain  could  put 
out  the  great  fire  at  Binnses'.  There  were  tar 
barrels  on  it.  And  in  the  time-office  roman 
candles  and  squibs,  and  baccarappas,  and  big 
crackers,  and  little  crackers,  lay  in  rows  on  the 
floor  and  on  the  table,  all  ready.  One  in  each  hand 
— whoo! — whoo!  there'd  be  some  fun  before  nine 
o'clock. 

The  big  gates  were  open.  Now  and  again  the 
flames  spurted  with  a  flare,  and  the  whole  buildings 
sprang  out  yellow  from  the  darkness.  Guests  were 
arriving  quickly  now.  John  suffered  a  little  dis- 
appointment ;  there  was  nobody  to  talk  to.  He  had 
forgotten  that  he  wouldn't  know  these  boys  and 
girls — they  were  not  in  his  circle  of  acquaintances. 
He  saw  Willie  Benlow  and  his  sister;  but  Willie 
Benlow  scarcely  knew  him  in  the  street  since  he 
went  to  the  Grammar  School.  The  Kingsnorton 
girls  were  there,  who  had  been  with  their  mother 
at  the  prize-giving  in  the  summer ;  they  didn't  know 
him.  One  was  a  lady  quite  grown  up,  of  another 
world  than  his.  He  went  out  to  look  for  Maggie 
Wheatley,  and  waited  about  until  he  heard  that  the 
fireworks  were  going  to  start.  Then  he  blamed 
Maggie  for  all  his  disappointment.  "Here,  young 
un,  you  might  slip  up  to  the  time-office  and  help," 
Mr.  Evans  told  him,  and  he  ran  away  into  the  dark- 
ness towards  the  smithy,  obstinately  determined  not 
to  help.  He  dared  not  go  further  alone;  it  was  so 
dark  and  mysterious.  The  boilers  hissed  gently 
near  at  hand,  and  bogey  noises  came  out  of  the 
night. 

The  shriek  of  the  first  rocket  startled  him.     It 


BINNSES  45 

was  as  though  a  fiery  sword  had  torn  the  darkness, 
leaving  a  trail  of  scintillating  shreds.  Then  the 
rocket  burst  with  a  terrific  detonation,  scattering 
a  shower  of  golden  sparks.  An  interval  followed; 
then  one  after  another  a  shrill  company  of  rockets 
mounted  the  heavens,  and  exploded  softly  in  foun- 
tains of  green  stars.  The  whole  world  was  filled 
with  pallid  light.  Another  series  followed,  and 
objects  showed  in  lurid  silhouettes  as  the  crimson 
stars  trailed  down  to  earth,  and  died,  leaving  the 
night  inky  black. 

"What  do  you  think  you're  doing  here?" 

The  gruff  question  gave  John  a  horrid  start. 
When  he  turned  he  saw  Sam  Bloom  and  Maggie. 

"I  thought  that  would  frighten  you  inside  out," 
said  Sam.  "You're  a  nice  gentleman,  to  promise 
to  meet  a  young  lady  and  take  her  out  for  the  even- 
ing, and  then  run  away." 

Maggie  giggled. 

"I  didn't  run  away,"  protested  John.  "She 
wasn't  there." 

"Well,  the  least  you  can  do  is  to  get  her  a  few 
squibs  to  dry  her  tears  up." 

Sam  was  greatly  changed  since  the  summer. 
He  worked  at  a  drilling  machine  at  Cadby's  new 
foundry,  and  had  now  a  jocular,  off-hand  manner, 
carefully  modelled  upon  that  of  the  best  workshop 
hands.  He  could  smoke,  and  swear,  and  talk  horse- 
racing,  and  calculate  odds.  John  felt  instinctively 
that  there  was  something  awry  in  this  sprouting 
manhood,  something  missing  perhaps — he  did  not 
know.  He  had  always  liked  Sam,  and  he  did  not 
attempt  to  find  fault  with  him.  Indeed,  he  had 
little  opportunity;  they  saw  each  other  very  sel- 
dom. John's  friends  were  still  at  school.  With 
Sam  it  was  a  point  of  etiquette  not  to  be  seen  with 
a  schoolboy. 

John    fetched   a   handful   of   squibs  and  three 


46  LITTLE  HOUSES 

roman  candles,  and  for  the  first  time  in  the  evening 
he  began  to  enjoy  himself  thoroughly.  Maggie  kept 
close  to  him,  and  lit  her  squibs  from  his.  Sam 
walked  up  boldly  to  the  fire  and  lit  his  at  the  blaze, 
despite  the  fierce  heat  beating  on  him.  "It's  nothing 
to  our  smallest  furnace,"  he  explained. 

Cheers,  and  merry  laughter,  and  shrieks  of  ex- 
citement filled  the  air,  accompanying  the  din  of  the 
fireworks.  Folk  at  the  market  in  the  "Bullen,"  and 
in  all  the  district  round,  even  over  beyond  Nick- 
ling,  glanced  at  the  flare  in  the  sky,  and  said,  "That's 
Binnses'."  Old  Gentleman  Binns  himself  was  in- 
doors, watching  the  fireworks  occasionally  from  a 
window,  and  holding  a  reception  of  a  few  of  his 
old  friends. 

The  fun  was  nearly  at  an  end,  and  John  was 
alone.  Sam  and  Maggie  had  disappeared.  The 
crackers  in  the  guy  had  exploded  and  his  carcase 
was  hanging  in  glowing  shreds.  Two  girls  were 
walking  slowly  to  and  fro,  their  glances  fixed  on 
the  ground,  searching  for  something. 

"It  was  here  somewhere,  I'm  sure." 

John's  curiosity  was  roused.  He  looked  about 
near  where  they  were  searching,  but  dared  not 
question  them;  they  were  the  Kingsnorton  girls, 
beings  of  another  social  world.  He  would  have 
been  too  self-conscious  to  talk  intelligently,  even 
had  they  deigned  to  speak  to  him.  It  would  be 
almost  impossible  to  find  anything  among  the  dead 
fireworks  scattered,  he  decided,  and  presently  he 
wandered  away.  The  fun  hadn't  lasted  long;  no 
fun  ever  lasted  long  enough,  and  somehow  he  felt 
it  hadn't  been  so  grand  as  he  had  hoped. 

Then  he  saw  Sam  and  Maggie  again. 

"Bit  o'  luck,"  said  Sam.  "I've  found  a  silver 
brooch. 

"I  found  it,"  said  Maggie. 

"Who  picked  it  up?"  demanded  Sam. 


BINNSES  47 

"That's  because  you  pushed  me  away." 

"There's  a  girl  lost  it,"  said  John.  "They're 
looking  for  it  over  there." 

"Who?" 

"The  Miss  Kingsnortons." 

"How  do  you  know  they've  lost  this?  Did  they 
tell  you?" 

"No,  but  I  saw " 

"Very  well,  then.    Find  it  keeps." 

"But  it's  theirs,  I  tell  you." 

"It's  ours  now." 

John  was  still  arguing  when  Mr.  Evans  called 
him: 

"Just  have  a  look  round  and  see  if  you  can  find 
a  silver  brooch  lying  about  anywhere.  Ask  if  any- 
body's seen  it." 

John  was  worried.  He  couldn't  tell  about  Sam 
and  Maggie.  He  couldn't  persuade  them — they  had 
gone.  It  was  a  difficult  problem  to  solve. 

He  was  pretending  to  search  near  the  fire  when 
Maggie  ran  to  him. 

"Here  it  is — quick!  I  snatched  it  off  him,"  she 
exclaimed,  and  ran  away. 

John  walked  to  the  time-office,  and  explained  to 
Mr.  Evans  that  he  had  found  the  brooch  by  the 
fire. 

"I  knew  it  couldn't  ha'  got  far,"  said  Mr.  Evans, 
who  was  always  in  the  right. 

He  wouldn't  let  John  escape,  and  the  boy  had  to 
suffer  the  thanks  of  both  girls  and  of  their  parents. 
The  younger,  whom  her  mother  called  Barbara, 
said  to  him,  "Thank  you  very  much  indeed,"  and 
smiled  with  so  much  pleasure  and  dignity  that  he 
was  acutely  impressed,  and  blushed  crimson.  Mr. 
Kingsnorton  turned  as  he  was  about  to  go  and  gave 
him  a  shilling,  "For  your  money-box,  my  lad." 
Mr.  Evans  crowned  the  episode  from  his  store  of 
wisdom:  "That's  the  style,  young  man.  Keep 


48  LITTLE  HOUSES 

honest,  mind  your  p's  and  q's,  and  watch  your  man- 
ners— you're  sure  to  get  on."  Yet  all  his  wisdom, 
and  even  the  shilling  itself,  had  not  the  lasting  effect 
of  the  little  girl's  smile  and  dignity. 

The  guy  had  collapsed  and  lay  a  mass  of  grey 
ash  on  the  top  of  the  waning  fire.  Most  of  the 
people  had  gone.  John  clasped  the  shilling  in  his 
fist,  and  put  his  fist  in  his  pocket,  and  prepared  to 
run  home  to  his  mother. 

Sam  and  Maggie  were  in  the  road  outside. 

"Have  you  given  the  brooch  back?"  said  Sam 
.  .  .  "Good  boy !  Did  you  think  I  wanted  to  steal 
the  blessed  thing?" 

"Mr.  Kingsnorton  gave  me  a  shilling,"  said  John, 
avoiding  the  question. 

"Fourpence  apiece,  Maggie,"  said  Sam  gleefully. 

John  was  startled. 

"Don't  take  any  notice  of  Sam's  nonsense,"  said 
Maggie. 

"I  will  share  it,  if  you  like,"  said  John,  unwilling, 
but  fearful  of  appearing  mean. 

Maggie  pushed  Sam  back. 

"No,  you  keep  it.    It's  yours." 

"I  don't  want  your  bits  o'  shillings,"  declared 
Sam  loftily.  "I  earn  plenty.  You  won't  come  to 
the  'Bull'  for  a  drink,  I  s'pose,  now  you've  come 
into  a  fortune." 

He  stalked  away. 

"He's  jealous,"  said  Maggie,  seeing  John's  hu- 
miliation. "He  thinks  he's  a  man." 

"I  don't  care!"  exclaimed  John.  It  was  a  hard 
struggle  to  disdain.  "We've  got  the  shilling,  haven't 
we,  and  he  hasn't."  He  was  hurt  by  Sam's 
humour,  and  suffered  the  schoolboy's  envy  of  his 
elder's  incipient  manhood.  The  thought  of  the 
shilling,  however,  and  the  glint  of  it  as  he  held  it  to 
show  Maggie  brought  him  triumph,  and  generosity 
followed. 


BINNSES  49 

"It's  yours,  really.  You  found  the  brooch,  I 
didn't." 

He  put  the  shilling  into  her  hand,  and  her  ringers 
closed  on  it  before  she  realized  what  he  was  at. 
Then  she  tried  to  give  it  back,  and  a  merry  scuffle 
followed.  He  told  her,  "It's  yours,"  when  it 
dropped  to  the  ground,  but  she  ran  after  him  with 
it.  At  last  he  accepted  it  again;  she  gave  him  no 
peace. 

They  had  moved  away  from  the  works  into 
Orchard  Street,  the  wrong  direction  for  John. 

"You're  going  straight  home,  aren't  you?" 
said  he. 

Maggie  laughed  at  him. 

"You  are.  I  know  you've  got  to  hurry.  It's 
your  bath  night." 

"I  needn't  be  in  early  unless  I  like,"  said  John, 
stung  in  his  pride. 

"I'll  dare  you  to  come  up  the  hill  with  me." 

"It's  raining,"  he  protested. 

"I  told  you  you  were  frightened." 

"I  aren't!" 

He  thought  of  his  mother,  waiting  for  him  now, 
and  watching  the  clock,  and  he  was  intensely 
worried,  but  not  an  atom  of  his  trouble  must  he 
show  before  a  girl. 

"I'm  going  round  Mount  Street,"  said  Maggie. 

He  walked  with  her  doggedly.  Very  soon  she 
had  forgotten  how  she  had  teased  him,  and  in  her 
own  volubility  she  did  not  perceive  that  he  had  no 
talk. 

"This  time  next  year  I  shall  be  in  service," 
she  told  him,  growing  more  and  more  confidential. 
"Mother  says  she's  going  to  send  me  away, 
get  me  into  a  big  house  somewhere — London, 
perhaps." 

"I  shall  be  at  the  Grammar  School,"  said  John, 
roused. 


5o  LITTLE  HOUSES 

"You'll  be  a  boy  at  school.  I  shall  be  ever  so 
grown  up,"  she  declared  enthusiastically.  "Mother's 
got  a  book  in  the  house — the  Countess  of  Some- 
where— I  forget  her  name — she  was  only  a  poor 
girl  in  the  country,  and  went  to  London.  All  kinds 
of  rich  gentlemen  wanted  to  marry  her." 

In  her  ardour  she  forgot  for  the  moment  that 
she  was  talking  to  a  boy. 

"I'm  reading  'The  Pirates  of  the  Prairie,' 
Gustave  Aimard.  That's  the  kind  of  book  to  read," 
said  he. 

"This  is  a  true  tale,  though,"  explained  Maggie. 
"It's  written  by  the  lady  herself.  There's  one  gen- 
tleman she  was  very  fond  of — he  comes  to  the 
cottage  when  she's  a  poor  girl,  and  gives  her  a 
shilling  for  a  glass  of  water.  He  promises  to 
marry  her,  and  they  break  the  shilling  in  two,  and 
wear  it  round  their  necks.  When  he  dies  she  puts 
her  half  on  his  grave  and  covers  it  up,  and  puts 
flowers  on." 

"She  couldn't  ha'  spent  it  anyhow.  It  was 
wasted,"  said  John. 

Maggie  resented  his  practical  view. 

"I  shan't  tell  you  any  more.  You're  only  making 
fun." 

"It  was  wasted,"  persisted  John.  "Would  you 
break  a  good  shilling  in  two?" 

She  had  to  say  "No!" 

He  put  the  shilling  down  the  back  of  her  neck, 
and  laughed  at  her  while  she  tried  to  shake  it 
down. 

"I'm  going  home  now,"  she  declared  at  length, 
and  she  came  close  to  him.  "Do  you  know  what 
she  gave  him  for  his  shilling?" 

"No— what?" 

To  his  utter  astonishment  she  put  her  face  up 
to  his.  He  drew  back,  startled,  and  her  kiss  was 
placed  on  the  end  of  his  nose.  Before  he  recovered 


BINNSES  51 

she  was  running  away  up  the  hill.    For  a  moment 
he  hesitated.    Then  it  was  too  late  to  give  chase. 

"Good  night!"  she  called  out. 

"Goodnight!"  said  he. 

She  laughed  merrily,  and  called  "good  night" 
again  and  again. 

He  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill  when  he  dis- 
covered the  shilling  in  his  coat  pocket.  He  smiled 
in  all  the  satisfaction  of  both  generosity  and  pos- 
session. There  was  a  queer,  uncomfortable  sensa- 
tion at  the  tip  of  his  nose,  and  a  lightness  in  him, 
a  joy  .  .  . 

It  was  a  full  minute,  or  more,  before  he  recol- 
lected that  it  was  his  bath  night.  Then  he  ran. 

"I  thought  it  was  your  father  at  first,"  said  his 
mother,  when  he  entered  the  house. 

She  had  been  sitting  alone  with  her  anxiety,  and 
the  boy's  coming  relieved  her  for  a  while.  She 
forgave  his  lateness.  John  perceived  nothing  of  his 
mother's  thoughts.  He  rejoiced  in  his  having 
escaped  censure,  and  wondered  how  much  longer  he 
might  have  stayed  out  if  he  had  known. 

"It's  raining  hard  now,"  he  told  her. 

He  was  puzzled  by  her  silence.  A  basin  of  bread 
and  milk  stood  on  the  hob,  and  a  jug  of  herbs  for 
his  father — horehound  and  honey  and  liquorice,  and 
certain  secret  herbs  bought  from  an  old  woman  at 
Nickling,  who  was  supposed  to  concoct  the  mixture 
at  the  full  of  the  moon,  as  her  grandmother  had 
taught  her — a  famous  brew.  John's  mother  put  the 
basin  on  the  table. 

"Get  your  supper  now,"  she  commanded. 
"You'll  have  your  bath  another  time.  I  haven't 
got  the  saucepan  on." 

John  was  pleased,  but  his  perplexity  marred  his 
pleasure  somewhat.  Saturday  night  and  no  bath, 
and  his  mother  at  home,  in  good  health — it  was 
unprecedented.  He  began  to  talk  about  the  glories 


52  LITTLE  HOUSES 

of  the  fireworks,  but  failed  in  his  descriptions — his 
mother  was  not  listening.  He  was  glad  to  escape 
upstairs. 

He  was  in  bed  before  he  remembered  that  he 
hadn't  told  his  mother  about  the  shilling.  All  the 
way  home  he  had  rehearsed  this  story  to  begin  as 
soon  as  he  entered  the  house,  and  catch  his  mother's 
interest  before  she  could  complain  of  his  being 
late. 

Presently  he  heard  a  sound  of  coughing  in  the 
road,  and  footsteps  passing  very  slowly  by  the 
houses.  He  thought  he  recognized  his  father's 
cough,  though  he  was  not  sure,  for  this  was  much 
worse.  Then  he  heard  the  back  door  open,  and 
the  coughing  again  in  the  sitting  room.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  end  of  it.  Frightened  at  length, 
he  crept  out  of  bed,  and  on  to  the  landing  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs.  His  mother  was  talking. 

"Thomas!  Thomas!"  he  heard  her  say.  It  was 
years  since  he  had  heard  her  call  his  father 
"Thomas."  When  the  coughing  ceased  a  while  he 
heard  his  father's  breathing,  although  the  door  was 
shut  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs.  It  was  cold  up 
here,  with  bare  feet  on  the  oilcloth;  John  trembled, 
and  in  bed  again  he  couldn't  get  comfortable. 
Presently  his  mother  and  father  came  up  the  stairs 
together.  Then  his  mother  went  down,  and  up 
again,  and  down;  a  crackling  noise  told  him  there 
was  a  fire  lit  in  the  bedroom.  Except  for  his 
father's  two  short  illnesses,  there  had  only  been  one 
fire  in  that  grate  since  they  came  into  the  house — 
one  winter  day  when  his  mother  was  ill.  When  his 
father  ceased  coughing  he  lay  tormented  by  the 
anticipation  of  his  recommencing.  Formless  terrors 
stalked  in  the  darkness. 

His  father  was  coughing  when  he  awoke,  and  he 
wondered  if  the  coughing  had  continued  all  night. 
His  mother  came  to  get  him  up. 


BINNSES  53 

"You'll  have  to  go  for  the  doctor  after  breakfast," 
she  told  him  quietly. 

When  he  was  ready  to  go  downstairs  he  saw  that 
the  other  door  was  ajar,  and  he  went  on  tiptoe 
across  the  landing  to  peep  into  his  father's  room. 
The  blind  was  still  down,  and  the  air  stuffy.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  mountain  of  clothes  on  the  bed. 
Then  he  saw  that  it  was  his  father,  lying  face 
downwards,  with  his  knees  doubled  under  him,  and 
gasping  horribly  for  breath.  He  always  wore  a 
white  nightcap  since  his  first  serious  attack  of  bron- 
chitis; now  it  was  awry,  and  its  whiteness  made 
the  dark  crimson  of  his  neck  seem  gruesomely  un- 
natural. The  air  made  bubbling  and  wheezing  noises 
in  his  chest,  and  he  had  to  fight  for  every  breath. 
John  felt  his  throat  choking,  and  a  mist  of  tears 
blurred  his  vision  as  he  stole  away  and  waited  a 
while,  listening,  on  the  landing  before  he  went  down- 
stairs. 

"Shall  I  go  for  the  doctor  now?"  he  said. 

"No.  You  had  better  have  your  breakfast  first," 
said  his  mother. 

He  didn't  enjoy  his  sausages.  While  his  mother 
went  upstairs  he  squeezed  his  nose  with  his  fingers, 
and  shut  his  mouth  tight,  till  he  couldn't  hold  his 
breath  another  second.  Then  he  tried  it  again, 
allowing  only  a  tiny  passage  for  the  air,  and 
he  wondered  how  his  father  could  keep  alive, 
fighting  for  breath,  hour  after  hour.  He  was 
frightened. 

Rain  had  fallen  heavily  all  night.  Now  the  pave- 
ments were  drying,  and  the  warm  sunlight  glinted 
on  the  puddles.  The  air  was  still,  and  filled  with 
all  the  peace  of  Sunday  morning.  A  thrush  sang 
a  few  loud  notes,  over  and  over,  from  the  ash.  The 
river  bridge  looked  so  clean,  it  might  have  been 
scrubbed  in  the  night. 

Doctor  Rubery  lived  in  a  bie  house  near  Binnses. 


54  LITTLE  HOUSES 

As  John  approached,  he  recollected  the  bonfire 
and  the  shilling.  He  hadn't  told  his  mother  yet. 
Breakfast  was  late  at  the  doctor's.  The  maid's 
mouth  was  greasy,  and  there  was  a  luscious  smell 
of  ham  frying.  John  felt  vaguely  that  things  had 
no  right  to  be  as  usual,  when  his  father  was  so 
ill.  At  home  again  he  helped  his  mother  in  the 
house,  both  of  them  working  mechanically.  The 
joint  of  beef  had  to  be  cooked  before  the  fire  in 
the  kitchen ;  it  was  John's  duty  to  watch  that  it  was 
kept  turning.  They  had  no  jack ;  a  twisted  rope  of 
worsted  performed  the  same  office,  with  a  skewer 
through  it  to  wind  it  up  every  few  moments. 
The  joint  must  not  be  allowed  to  spin  too  fast,  and 
it  had  to  be  basted  with  the  same  iron  spoon  mother 
used  for  burning  the  sugar  in  the  fire  to  brown 
the  gravy.  John  loved  to  stay  at  home  and 
watch  the  joint,  but  to-day  it  was  a  monotonous 
task. 

The  doctor  came  at  midday.  John  listened  at  the 
kitchen  door  while  his  mother  talked,  after  they  had 
been  upstairs. 

"I  thought  he'd  ha'  died  in  the  night." 

"Oh,  I'll  have  many  a  bill  out  of  him  yet,  never 
fear." 

The  doctor  laughed  heartily  and  John  re- 
joiced. 

He  was  allowed  to  go  upstairs.  His  father  sat 
propped  up,  with  clean  clothes  on  the  bed,  and  his 
nightcap  on  straight.  He  asked  John  about  the  bon- 
fire, and  the  joint  downstairs,  and  the  boy's  gaiety 
returned. 

He  had  dinner  with  his  mother  in  the  kitchen, 
to  save  trouble,  and  he  told  her  of  the  shilling  Mr. 
Kingsnorton  had  given  him. 

"Maggie  Wheatley  found  the  brooch  really," 
he  explained. 

"You  might  give  her  sixpence  of  it;  and  you 


BINNSES  55 

can  put  your  sixpence  in  your  money-box,"  advised 
his  mother. 

He  was  disappointed.  It  was  fair  enough  to  give 
Maggie  half,  but  putting  his  own  sixpence  in  a 
money-box  was  like  throwing  it  away. 

As  soon  as  dinner  was  over,  and  the  water  hot 
for  washing  up  the  dishes,  his  mother  put  the  big 
saucepan  on  the  fire:  "For  your  bath  in  about  an 
hour's  time,"  she  explained. 

"Aren't  I  going  to  Sunday  school?"  objected 
John. 

"Cleanliness  is  next  to  godliness." 

It  was  the  only  time  she  smiled  all  day.  John 
didn't  smile  at  all.  It  was  a  miserable  Sunday. 
Even  the  big  volumes  of  the  History  of  Eng- 
land failed  to  interest  him. 

Monday  morning  was  no  better. 

"Your  father  had  a  very  bad  night.  He's 
dropped  asleep  now,"  said  his  mother. 

He  was  glad  to  escape  to  school.  Maggie  Wheat- 
ley  was  late,  and  he  had  no  chance  of  speaking  to 
her.  "If  I  don't  see  her,  I  can't  give  her  anything," 
he  thought,  and  resolved  to  keep  the  whole  shilling. 
The  resolve  lived  until  the  afternoon,  and  then  he 
repented  after  school.  Maggie  was  going  away  up 
the  hill  alone.  He  couldn't  go  to  her  before  the 
other  boys,  they  would  torment  him  for  weeks,  but 
he  could  follow  her. 

She  had  disappeared  round  the  back  of  the  house 
when  he  arrived,  and  he  told  himself,  "I  shan't 
come  up  again." 

She  must  have  seen  him,  he  understood,  for  she 
reappeared  lower  down  the  hill.  She  had  run  down 
past  the  backs  of  the  houses  and  so  come  into  the 
street  again. 

"Hallo!"  she  said,  calmly. 

He  was  disconcerted. 

"I  thought  you'd  gone  in  the  house." 


56  LITTLE  HOUSES 

"Didn't  you  want  me?" 

"Yes." 

"I'm  here." 

His  embarrassment  grew.  She  wasn't  like  other 
girls,  shy  and  giggling,  always  waiting  for  the  boy 
to  make  the  talk.  He  went  into  a  little  shop  and 
got  two  sixpences  for  his  shilling,  and  she  ran  to 
spend  hers  at  once.  He  had  hoped  faintly  that  she 
would  refuse.  She  shared  her  nuts  and  brandy  balls 
with  him,  a  pen'orth  of  each,  and  he  wasn't  even 
tempted  to  spend  his  sixpence.  He  told  her  it  was 
for  his  money-box. 

It  was  nearly  half  past  five  when  they  parted. 

"I'm  going  to  spend  the  rest  to-night.  Shall  I?" 
said  Maggie. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  John. 

"Won't  you  come  out?" 

She  tempted  a  promise  from  him. 

He  was  in  such  good  humour  that  his  mother's 
censure  took  him  unawares. 

"I  couldn't  help  being  late,"  he  explained.  "I 
was  giving  Maggie  Wheatley  her  sixpence." 

"I've  got  enough  without  you  worrying  me.  Get 
your  tea.  I  want  to  clear  away." 

He  had  no  means  of  understanding  that  her 
mood  was  the  result  of  her  own  mental  disquietude. 
He  thought  she  was  stupidly  angry.  When  tea  was 
over,  and  the  things  put  away,  he  was  afraid  to  ask 
to  go  out,  and  he  was  afraid  to  go  out  without 
asking.  His  father  coughed  intermittently  upstairs ; 
and  then  fell  into  a  doze.  His  mother  darned 
stockings.  He  thought  of  Maggie  waiting  impa- 
tiently for  him,  and  eating  the  sweets  herself,  and 
she  would  be  angry,  too — scorn  him,  perhaps.  His 
thoughts  slid  down  into  a  dark  gulf  of  misery. 
When  he  asked  to  go  to  bed  before  his  usual  time 
his  mother  thought  he  was  unwell,  and  threatened 
him  with  medicine. 


BINNSES  57' 

Maggie  Wheatley  wouldn't  look  at  him  the  next 
day,  nor  the  day  after  that.  He  told  himself  re- 
sentfully he  didn't  care,  and  avoided  her. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  the  doctor  had  a  long 
chat  with  Mrs.  Allday.  Her  husband  was  out  of 
danger  for  the  present.  The  future  for  the  patient 
depended  on  his  taking  great  care  of  himself,  and 
staying  indoors  during  the  severe  weather. 
"There's  many  years  of  life  in  him,  with 
reasonable  care.  He  won't  be  able  to  do  any 
regular  work,  I'm  afraid — not  this  winter,  any- 
how." 

Mrs.  Allday  explained  to  John:  "I  don't  suppose 
we  shall  starve,  even  if  he  never  works  again.  We've 
got  a  nice  bit  put  away,  thank  God;  but  we  shall 
have  to  scrape." 

Friends  were  allowed  upstairs  to  see  Mr.  All- 
day,  and  John  found  he  could  play  football  after 
school,  and  come  in  late  for  his  tea,  without  his 
mother's  growing  irritable.  Only  one  thought 
troubled  him  at  all,  "If  father  never  goes  to  work 
again,  we  shall  be  ever  so  poor,  and  I  can't  go  to 
the  Grammar  School." 

His  great  resolve  came  on  the  Sunday  after  his 
father  came  downstairs  for  the  first  time.  He  kept 
it  timidly  till  after  supper,  when  he  said  "good 
night"  before  going  to  bed: 

"Please,  I  don't  want  to  go  to  the  Grammar 
School.  I'd  like  to  go  to  work  and  earn  some  money 
instead.  I  could  go  to  Binnses." 

He  didn't  wait  for  a  reply.  His  ears  tingled  as 
he  undressed,  and  he  smiled  in  a  fine  glow  of  pleas- 
ure which  he  made  no  effort  to  understand.  It 
would  be  splendid,  being  grown-up,  and  working  at 
Binnses.  He  understood  that  he  was  making  some 
sort  of  sacrifice,  but  he  had  no  idea  of  its  magnitude ; 
he  only  felt  the  joy  of  it. 

His  father  said,  "God  bless  the  lad!"  and  there 


58  LITTLE  HOUSES 

were  tears  in  his  eyes.  His  mother  lay  awake 
long  after  her  partner  had  begun  to  choke  and 
gurgle  in  sleep.  She  didn't  wish  to  sleep  yet — 
she  wanted  to  enjoy  her  happiness  in  full 
measure. 


SECOND  PART 
CHAPTER  1 

THE  PIE  FAIR 

THE  year  1893  was  a  very  good  year  for  The 
Trade.  Every  true  Briton  knows  that  there 
is  only  one  trade  in  the  United  Kingdom — 
that  of  the  gentry  who  never  refuse  a  welcome  to 
a  stranger  with  money  to  spend  on  ales,  beer, 
wines,  and  spirits.  From  New  Year's  Day  onward 
there  was  never  a  public-house  without  its  orator, 
and  never  an  orator  without  his  argumentative 
audience,  all  busily  occupied  with  what  is  more 
important  than  work,  and  more  stimulating  than 
play — politics,  in  which  persistence  will  triumph 
over  mere  reason,  and  thirst  over  both.  Mr.  Glad- 
stone had  brought  in  the  great  Home  Rule  Bill. 
Everybody  was  for  it,  or  against  it,  to  the  death. 
Some  people  even  understood  it,  but  they  gained 
nothing  by  that;  indeed,  they  invariably  lost  their 
tempers  because  they  couldn't  make  other  people 
understand  it.  Various  profiles,  encased  in  Mr. 
Gladstone's  famous  collars,  appeared  on  school- 
children's  slates,  sharing  popularity  with  the  im- 
mortal bogeyman.  Sundry  horse-races  and  local 
affairs  demanded  attention  during  the  year ;  Chicago 
celebrated  its  World's  Fair;  Nansen  set  out  in  the 
"Fram"  on  his  famous  attempt  to  drift  across  the 

59 


60  LITTLE  HOUSES 

Pole,  according  to  Professor  Mohn's  theory.  But 
these  things  were  no  more  than  mere  parochial 
affairs.  The  Home  Rule  Bill  was  the  thing.  When 
September  came,  and  the  Lords  threw  it  out,  every 
newspaper  struggling  for  huge  circulation  said  that 
public  feeling  was  at  fever  heat.  Nothing  could 
have  happened  more  opportune  for  the  success  of 
the  Pie  Fair. 

For  twenty  miles  round  the  countryside  folk 
flocked  to  Pedley  Hill  for  the  annual  fair.  Sel- 
bridge  was  a  greater  town,  and  threatened  soon 
to  swallow  Pedley  Hill  and  still  feel  hungry;  yet, 
despite  its  greatness,  it  was  not  able  to  boast  of  a 
fair  anything  like  so  good  as  its  neighbour's. 
Nobody  asked  why.  It  was  perfectly  natural  that 
it  should  be  so,  because  it  had  always  been.  No 
reasonable  person  has  any  right  to  inquire  the  why 
and  wherefore  of  established  custom  until  it  is 
extinct. 

Nobody  else  could  make  pies  like  those  baked 
in  Pedley  Hill.  The  famous  steak  and  kidney  pies 
might  be  equalled  here  and  there,  perhaps,  on 
fortuitous  occasions;  the  pigeon  pies  might 
occasionally  be  equalled;  but  the  pork  pies — 
never.  No  recipe  for  them  had  ever  been  trusted 
to  paper.  Even  though  it  might  be  written,  and 
you  might  pay  pounds  and  pounds  to  the  thief — 
for  only  by  theft  could  such  a  treasure  be  obtained 
— it  wouldn't  do  you  any  good.  You  had  to  be 
born  in  Pedley  Hill  to  make  the  real  pies,  and  you 
had  to  have  the  pie  genius.  There  was  history  to 
prove  it.  There  is  history  to  prove  anything,  of 
course,  except  that  better  pies  have  ever  been  made 
in  Selbridge.  King  Charles  had  praised  the  pies 
he  ate  in  Pedley  Hill.  He  must  have  done,  for  he 
was  a  gentleman,  and  therefore  more  appreciative 
of  the  high  art  of  pie  making  than  any  close- 
cropped  Roundhead  could  be.  His  actual  words 


THE  PIE  FAIR  61 

had  not  been  preserved,  unfortunately,  but  it  is 
well  known  that  he  slept  in  Pecllcy  Hill  during  the 
opening  days  of  the  Great  War.  Queen  Eliza- 
beth slept  once  in  the  town,  too.  It's  a  poor 
town  indeed  which  never  bedded  one  or  the  other  of 
them. 

Most  houses  had  a  long  garden,  and  the  garden 
nearly  always  had  a  pigsty  at  the  end.  The  air 
was  rilled  with  the  most  luscious  squeals  at  feeding- 
time.  Pig-killing  was  a  trade  in  itself,  hereditary. 
Home-cured  bacon,  lard,  brawn,  chitterlings, 
scratchings,  sausages,  black  puddings,  pies — a  good 
housewife  had  to  be  expert  in  the  preparation  of  all 
these  dainties.  Every  pig  was  cut  up,  each  part 
allotted  to  its  new  owner,  and  gloated  over,  before 
it  was  coaxed  gently  to  the  spot  where  it  might  sing 
"good-bye"  to  its  assembled  friends. 

The  marvellous  excellence  of  the  pies  was  not  in 
the  pastry  alone,  nor  in  the  meat,  nor  the  jelly — 
it  was  everywhere.  You  couldn't  tell  exactly 
where  it  was  or  what  it  was,  and  you  could  no  more 
copy  it  than  you  could  fit  a  pair  of  trousers  on  a 
will-o'-the-wisp.  The  pastry  had  to  be  made  with 
boiling  water,  milk,  and  lard,  in  delicately 
adjusted  proportions  with  the  flour,  all  by  instinct; 
no  mechanical  weighing  would  do  it.  When  the 
meat  was  packed  in  layers  of  fat  and  lean  your 
troubles  were  only  just  beginning;  the  crust 
had  to  be  raised.  If  the  temperature  went  down 
all  the  bad  language  at  a  Selbridge  football  match 
wouldn't  help  you — the  pie  was  ruined.  You 
had  to  have  the  dexterity  of  a  juggler,  and  all  the 
skill  of  a  Pedley  Hill  cook,  and  even  a  little  more 
was  needed.  Perhaps  you  had  to  say  a  prayer  to 
some  benevolent  saint — perhaps  Saint  Giles,  who 
brings  in  the  pork  season.  Nobody  knew  exactly — 
at  least  nobody  told  exactly. 

The  Church  calendar  and  the  moon  fixed  the 


62  LITTLE  HOUSES 

old  feasts,  and  the  old  folk  still  reckon  the  Pie  Fair 
in  the  proper  way.  As  an  actual  fair  it  is  gone  now. 
The  pies  aren't  so  good  nowadays.  Any  of  the  old 
people  will  tell  you  so. 

The  origin  of  the  Pie  Fair  is  lost  in  the  mists  of 
antiquity,  as  the  historians  explain,  when  they 
are  fairly  stuck  in  their  investigations.  The  Fair 
was  originally  a  great  market,  and  the  sideshows 
which  came  to  be  its  real  attraction  came  originally 
because  there  were  the  buyers  and  sellers  with 
money  to  spend  after  marketing.  Business  shrunk 
to  haggling  of  no  importance;  the  hiring  of  farm 
servants  ceased;  yet  the  country  folk  flocked  in 
just  as  before.  Custom  dies  hard  with  country 
people.  Every  local  antiquary  has  shut  himself 
in  his  room  to  wonder  over  these  things,  when  he 
might  have  had  more  fun  on  the  wooden  horses  at 
a  penny  a  round.  One  indeed,  at  Pedley  Hill — 
though  he  was  a  Selbridge  man — wrote  long, 
unpaid  articles  in  newspapers  explaining  how  it 
hadn't  been  a  Pie  Fair  at  all,  but  a  Faille  Fair,  a 
sort  of  general  harvest  grain,  and  perhaps  stock 
market.  He  was  so  proud  of  himself  that  he  spent 
the  rest  of  his  life  in  weaving  history  for  the  place, 
and  cutting  it  up  into  readymade  suits.  Selbridge 
accepted  his  theory,  and  quoted  it  in  the  directory 
every  year.  Pedley  Hill  retorted,  "You  can't  make 
pies  with  straw — well,  perhaps  you  can,"  and  went 
on  enjoying  the  Fair  the  same  as  ever,  until  it  went 
out  of  fashion,  killed  by  modern  restlessness,  or 
education,  or  travel,  or  something  according  to  your 
own  pet  theory. 

It  was  Pie  Monday,  and  Pedley  Hill  was  on 
holiday  all  day.  In  the  great  days  the  Fair  had  been 
held  in  the  Bullen  and  on  the  waste  grounds  along 
Orchard  Street.  Gingerbread  and  pie  sellers  had 
stalls  to-day  in  the  Bullen,  but  the  Fair  Ground 
was  on  the  other  side  of  the  railway,  adjoining 


THE  PIE  FAIR  63 

the  "Heron."  The  better  classes  of  the  district 
often  went  away  to  the  seaside  at  the  Fair  holiday 
now,  and  the  workers  were  following  them  in 
increasing  numbers  every  year.  The  Fair  might 
be  a  relic  of  the  town's  brave  forefathers,  but  it 
was  scarcely  a  respectable  relic.  Some  blamed  other 
people's  forefathers,  and  some  blamed  other  people 
direct.  The  young  folk  went  to  the  Fair  and  en- 
joyed it. 

Maggie  Wheatley  had  come  home  on  Saturday 
evening,  from  Gloucestershire,  where  she  was  in 
service.  A  telegram  had  announced  her  mother's 
illness,  and  summoned  her.  Maggie  had  not  been 
home  for  five  years,  and  then  only  for  a  short 
stay.  During  that  time  she  had  seen  her  mother 
three  times,  once  at  her  sister's  in  Yorkshire,  and 
twice  at  the  seaside  when  she  had  paid  for  her 
mother's  holidays.  She  was  doing  well  now  as 
housemaid,  in  a  very  comfortable  place,  with  a 
chance  of  going  to  the  Mediterranean  in  the  new 
year,  and  as  she  journeyed  home  she  felt  resentfully 
that  her  mother  had  fallen  ill  at  the  wrong  time.  It 
couldn't  be  helped,  of  course,  but  it  was  unfortunate 
and  annoying. 

She  was  what  many  a  man  would  have  called 
"a  fine-looking  young  woman,"  of  medium  height, 
round  of  face  and  of  figure,  plump  now  in  full  rich 
curves,  but  threatening  to  be  fat  some  day.  A  first 
glance  at  her  face  gave  the  impression  of  sleepy 
good  humour,  with  a  hint  of  inner  laughter.  Most 
of  the  expression  was  in  the  eyes — grey,  with  heavy 
lids  and  long  lashes;  their  corners  seemed  to  be 
sunken  slightly  and  filled  with  lurking  shadows.  At 
times,  when  they  opened  wide,  there  was  a  gleam 
of  something  alert  below  their  sleepy  calm.  Her 
hair  was  of  dark  brown,  and  inclined  to  be  curly, 
low  over  her  forehead.  Her  nose  had  only  just 
been  saved  from  being  a  mere  knob.  It  was  the 


64  LITTLE  HOUSES 

nose  which  helped  to  give  the  expression  its  good 
humour,  as  well  as  the  dimples  at  the  corners  of 
the  lips,  which  were  of  a  vivid  red  against  the  matt 
complexion.  In  profile  the  face  was  not  so  attrac- 
tive; the  chin  fell  away  slightly,  and  the  nose 
struggled  to  turn  up.  Maggie  was  not  at  all 
beautiful,  but  she  was  in  robust  health,  and  graceful. 
The  men  always  looked  at  her  a  second  time. 

Her  married  sister  Alice  let  her  in  at  the  front 
door.  Maggie  scorned  Alice  in  her  inner  self, 
because  she  was  common,  and  Alice  accused  her 
sister  of  being  selfish.  Only  their  mother's  illness 
brought  them  a  common  bond  of  sympathy. 
Mrs.  Wheatley  had  had  a  stroke  a  week  ago.  Mrs. 
Onions  next  door  had  sent  for  the  elder  daughter 
immediately.  Mrs.  Wheatley  had  lost  the  power 
of  speech,  and  Mrs.  Onions  couldn't  find  Maggie's 
address.  Alice  was  angry  when  she  came  to  find 
that  Maggie  wrote  home  so  seldom  her  address 
couldn't  be  found.  She  herself  had  left  a  husband 
and  three  children  in  Leeds — there  would  be  another 
baby  next  year — and  her  life  was  filled  with  con- 
tinual household  worries.  Maggie  had  no  sympathy 
for  these  things,  because  she  never  forced  herself 
to  understand.  Alice  should  not  have  got  married ; 
she  knew  what  she  could  expect.  Maggie  had 
avoided  everything  serious  in  life  up  to  the 
present,  so  that  now  at  home  she  was  uncomfort- 
able. She  was  acutely  disturbed  by  her  mother's 
illness;  she  was  sorry  for  her,  though  she  resented 
being  stirred  out  of  her  usual  placidity. 

Mrs.  Wheatley  had  always  been  a  dilatory, 
easygoing  woman.  Her  husband  had  left  her  a 
little  money,  and  she  had  added  sufficiently  to 
her  income  by  occasional  dressmaking;  she  went 
out  to  sew  at  certain  big  houses  in  the  district. 
She  had  been  a  sewing-maid  when  she  was  young, 
and  she  had  a  nice  manner,  so  that  she  was  well 


THE  PIE  FAIR  65 

treated.  At  times  she  could  be  persuaded  to  lend 
a  hand  at  house-cleaning  and  washing,  but  not 
often — the  work  was  too  hard.  Her  own  home 
was  clean,  though  generally  untidy,  and  Maggie  was 
often  late  for  school.  She  was  like  her  mother. 
Alice  loved  to  tidy  up  when  her  mother  was  out, 
and  had  no  patience  with  what  she  called  Maggie's 
laziness.  Fate  had  been  unkind  to  her;  she 
deserved  a  better  lot.  She  didn't  complain.  Often 
she  consoled  herself  with  the  hope  that  maybe 
one  of  her  children  would  reward  her  for  all  her 
devotion. 

Alice  was  going  back  to  Leeds  to-day.  The 
sisters  had  tea  early  before  going  to  the  station. 
They  had  little  to  say  now,  and  made  conversation 
with  formal  remarks  on  the  coming  journey. 
Maggie  was  glad  her  sister  was  going,  although  she 
felt  that  she  ought  to  strive  against  her  thought. 
Alice's  mind  was  divided  between  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  the  children  again  and  her  fears  for  her 
mother. 

"Let  me  know  every  day  how  she  is,  especially 
if  there's  any  change,"  she  said.  "Doctor  Rubery 
won't  say  what  he  thinks.  That's  why  I'm  so 
anxious." 

"Perhaps  he  doesn't  know,"  suggested  Maggie. 
"Some  of  these  doctors " 

"You'll  let  me  know?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

At  length  tea  was  over,  and  they  went  upstairs 
together.  The  furniture  of  the  room  was  old 
and  worn,  and  the  wall-paper  was  faded,  but  it 
had  memories  which  always  called  the  girls  to 
reverence. 

"I'm  going  now,  mother,"  Alice  called  out. 
,  Mrs.   Wheatley's   eyes   gleamed,   and   she  made 
a  husky  sound  in  her  throat,  all  that  she  had  of 
speech.     She  was  a  pale,  faded  woman;  her  youth 


66  LITTLE  HOUSES 

had  been  her  only  beauty,  and  that  was  gone  long 
ago. 

"You'll  be  all  right.  Maggie  will  look  after  you. 
I  shall  perhaps  come  over  at  Christmas  if  I  can 
manage. 

Her  mother's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Maggie's 
emotion  seemed  to  rise  into  her  throat,  and  she 
slipped  out  of  the  room. 

Alice's  eyes  were  red  when  she  came  downstairs. 
She  had  nothing  to  say,  and  the  sisters  set  out  in 
silence  for  the  station. 

Maggie  was  glad  when  she  had  waved  her  hand 
for  the  last  time,  and  the  train  was  growing  to  a 
tiny  black  square  along  the  line.  For  several  years 
no  serious  anxiety  had  disturbed  her,  and  she  was 
resentful  under  this  sudden  agitation.  Everybody 
came  to  die  some  day,  and  mother  was  like  all  other 
folk.  She  had  been  ailing  for  a  long  time,  Maggie 
knew  by  her  letters.  She  felt  that  she  ought 
to  have  been  prepared  for  this;  she  ought  to  have 
written  home  oftener.  Her  mother  had  been  ill 
and  lonely — the  suffering  always  turns  instinctively 
to  solitude — and  a  letter  each  week  would  have 
given  her  so  much  pleasure.  Maggie  suffered  now 
in  contrition.  She  had  been  her  mother's  favourite, 
yet  Alice  had  shown  more  love.  Maggie  was  angry 
with  herself  now,  and  unconsciously  she  turned 
her  anger  upon  the  others  also. 

As  she  mounted  the  station  bridge  to  cross  the 
line  she  saw  the  Fair  Ground.  The  whole  district 
resounded  with  the  din;  the  ground  was  filled 
with  people,  like  a  swarm  of  great  ants,  quivering 
in  movement.  Maggie  wondered  how  many  of 
her  old  friends  were  there.  She  had  seen  none 
since  she  arrived.  Yesterday  she  had  been  at 
her  mother's  bedside  nearly  all  day.  The  figure 
of  John  Allday  came  before  her  mind;  she  hadn't 
seen  him  for  many  years,  since  they  were  children. 


THE  PIE  FAIR  67 

She  might  not  recognize  him,  she  thought,  and  then 
she  assured  herself  eagerly  that  she  would,  for  sure. 
She  hadn't  seen  Sam  Bloom  for  a  long  time  either. 
He  might  not  be  in  Pedley  Hill  now.  There  were 
more  boys  than  girls  in  her  gallery  of  memories. 
She  had  found  them  better  companions — she  was 
no  flirt.  For  a  long  time  now  she  had  had  no 
companions  at  all,  and  had  no  central  interest  in 
life.  It  was  this  being  abruptly  brought  face 
to  face  with  life  itself  which  caused  her  present 
humour. 

When  she  returned,  her  mother  was  lying  just 
as  they  had  left  her.  She  shook  her  pillow,  shut 
the  window  for  her,  and  gave  her  a  drink,  and  then 
sat  a  while  talking  of  Alice.  The  shadows  deepened 
in  the  corners  of  the  room,  and  came  out  stealthily. 
Outside  in  the  deep  cutting,  a  London  and  North 
Western  train  snorted,  louder  and  louder,  and  then 
faded  softly  on  the  ear.  There  was  no  other 
sound,  until  the  next  train  came. 

Maggie  rose  at  last. 

"I'm  going  to  the  doctor's,  mother,"  she  an- 
nounced. "You'll  be  all  right,  won't  you?  You 
won't  want  anything?  I  shan't  hurry.  Mrs. 
Onions  is  coming  in,  isn't  she?" 

She  went  down  Mount  Street.  A  boy  and  girl 
were  coming  up  the  hill  together,  eating  ginger- 
bread out  of  a  paper  bag.  The  boy  reminded  her 
of  John  Allday,  and  she  turned  to  look  at  him  again, 
and  smiled  at  her  own  memories. 

The  doctor's  surgery  had  two  entrances,  one  for 
patients  who  paid  their  bills  six  months  or  so 
after  their  illness,  the  other  for  club  patients,  whom 
the  doctor  took,  ill  and  well,  at  a  fixed  price,  whole- 
sale. The  gentry,  that  is  to  say,  those  who  paid 
their  bills,  or  owed  them,  were  allowed  to  sit  on 
horse-hair  covered  chairs  in  the  waiting-room, 
and  look  at  old  copies  of  magazines.  The  club 


68  LITTLE  HOUSES 

patients  had  to  perch  on  wooden  benches  against 
a  bare  wall,  bring  their  own  bottles,  and  take  them 
away  with  no  paper  around  them.  Mrs.  Wheatley 
was  a  club  patient,  but  Maggie  did  not  go  along 
with  the  common  people.  The  dispenser  intended 
to  tell  her  that  she  had  come  in  the  wrong  way, 
but  he  was  a  young  man,  and  her  manner  was  so 
impressive  that  his  courage  failed  him. 

There  was  no  need  for  her  to  go  home  yet.  Mrs. 
Onions  would  be  going  in  to  see  her  mother. 
Nothing  more  could  be  done  for  her ;  the  doctor  had 
said  so.  Maggie  strolled  along  to  the  Bullen,  and 
glanced  at  the  stalls.  She  hadn't  tasted  gingerbread 
since  she  was  a  girl.  Now  and  again  she  saw  a  face 
she  recognized,  and  she  was  pleased.  One  woman 
stopped  her  to  ask  about  her  mother,  and  as  she 
was  going  she  said,  "You'll  be  going  to  have  a 
peep  at  the  Fair,  I  suppose?"  Maggie  had  not 
intended  to  go,  but  the  words  filled  her  with 
desire.  Everybody  was  at  the  Fair;  it  wasn't  far 
away,  the  hoot  of  the  roundabout  engines  was  quite 
loud  here;  she  might  easily  walk  round  once 
and  come  away  again.  Already  it  was  vividly 
present  through  her  memories.  She  couldn't 
resist. 

In  outer  show  it  was  exactly  as  she  had 
imagined  it.  There  were  the  penny  wooden  horses 
galloping  round  for  ever,  and  the  little  ones  for  the 
children  at  a  ha'penny,  and  the  very  little  ones, 
with  an  old  villainous-looking  man  pushing  them 
round  while  the  mothers  held  the  children  on, 
and  solemnly  marched  round.  The  usual  cocoanut 
shies,  and  Aunt  Sallys  were  there,  and  shooting 
galleries  with  balls  on  water-jets,  and  clay  pipes  and 
bottles  to  be  smashed,  and  three-card-trick  men  still 
thriving  in  quiet  corners.  Before  the  boxing  show 
a  black  giant  was  offering  four  penn'orth  of  brandy 
at  the  "Heron"  to  anyone  brave  enough  to  don  a 


THE  PIE  FAIR  69 

pair  of  blood-stained  gloves  against  him,  and  a 
weedy  man  who  looked  as  though  he  hadn't  room 
left  inside  him  for  four  penn'orth  of  anything  was 
clamouring  to  fight  for  love.  Painted  clowns  and 
fairies  who  looked  as  though  they  had  rheumatics 
in  their  spare  time,  were  performing  in  the  plat- 
form before  the  London  Ghost  Show,  while  the 
Ghost  gave  the  spectators  a  full  two  penn'orth  of 
thrill  inside.  The  crowd  laughed  and  chatted,  and 
ate  all  manner  of  stuff  without  nourishment.  The 
children  blew  noisy  trumpets,  and  cried ;  the  organs 
ground  out  a  cacophony  of  airs.  Bells,  gongs,  and 
steam-whistles  tore  the  air  with  sound,  and  every- 
where hung  the  smells  of  trampled  turf  and 
paraffin,  sawdust,  vinegar,  sausages  frying,  and  hot 
humanity. 

Maggie  was  disappointed.  It  was  all  as  she  had 
seen  it  when  she  was  a  girl,  yet  it  was  all  so  dif- 
ferent. She  did  not  seek  to  understand  that  the 
change  was  in  herself.  She  had  no  means  of  plung- 
ing into  this  whirl  of  merriment  now  that  she  was 
outside  it,  and  looking  on,  for  the  first  time. 

She  was  standing  bemused  when  Sam  Bloom 
spoke  to  her. 

"I  don't  believe  I  should  have  known  you, 
Maggie,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  John  here." 

John  Allday  asked  how  her  mother  was. 

"I  don't  really  know,"  she  explained ;  "they  only 
sent  for  me  on  Saturday.  I  was  taken  by  sur- 
prise  " 

"How's  Maggie?"  interrupted  Sam. 

"How  do  I  look?"  she  said,  with  a  touch  of  her 
old  gaiety. 

"Lovely!" 

She  blushed.  She  had  asked  for  a  compliment, 
but  hadn't  been  ready  for  Sam's  blunt  style. 

"You're  coming  round  with  us  now,  aren't  you  ?" 
he  said. 


70  LITTLE  HOUSES 

"I  haven't  got  long." 

"Oh,  you  won't  get  off  that  easy  now  we've  got 
you,  will  she,  John?" 

She  glanced  rapidly  at  each  as  they  walked 
together.  Sam  was  the  same  in  manhood  as  he 
had  been  a  boy,  with  the  same  heaviness  of  feature 
in  repose,  the  same  quick  smile,  and  swagger  in  his 
gait.  John  Allday  had  changed.  His  manner  was 
very  quiet,  and  his  dress  neat.  He  had  a  sandy 
moustache  now,  and  looked  older  than  Sam,  who 
was  clean-shaven  and  boyish. 

"You've  grown  up  a  lot,"  Maggie  told  him  as  his 
glance  caught  hers. 

"Yes,  Maggie,"  said  Sam.  "We're  men,  and  be- 
tween you  and  me  it's  a  much  overrated  business. 
I  used  to  be  proud  when  anybody  called  me  'my 
man.'  I  like  'em  to  say  'my  boy'  now." 

"Are  you  dissatisfied  with  life?"  she  asked. 

"No — disillusioned." 

"Sam's  fun,"  said  John. 

Maggie  laughed.  She  was  beginning  to  enjoy 
herself. 

Sam  insisted  on  taking  them  on  the  wooden 
horses,  and  then  into  the  Ghost  Show.  Then  he  had 
to  throw  at  Aunt  Sally,  whose  skirts  flew  up  when 
she  was  knocked  over,  and  the  girls  screamed.  Sam 
couldn't  hit  her,  and  grew  red  in  the  face  and  ex- 
asperated. Maggie  tempted  John  to  try,  and  over 
went  the  old  lady,  with  her  bare  legs  in  the  air,  at 
his  first  ball.  He  protested  that  it  was  by  a  bit  of 
luck  when  Maggie  praised  his  skill,  and  he  chose  a 
rosette  for  her  to  wear  instead  of  accepting  the 
cigar  the  man  offered  him.  Darkness  had  fallen, 
and  the  lamps  were  all  flaring.  The  best  fun  of 
the  evening  had  begun. 

They  stood  for  a  moment  watching  the  crush. 
Near  them  was  a  dilapidated  show  booth,  with  a 
gaudy  sign  above  its  paraffin  flares:  THE  FATTEST 


THE  PIE  FAIR  71 

LADY  ON  EARTH — ALIVE.  A  huge  painted  canvas 
was  covered  with  a  faithless  portrait  of  the  lady,  a 
monstrous  being  in  an  outrageously  indecorous  cos- 
tume, bare  arms  and  shoulders,  and  a  skirt  of 
schoolgirl  length,  though  its  width  might  have 
suited  an  elephant  on  its  hind  legs.  Several 
gentlemen,  including  a  doctor  and  a  comic-opera 
general,  stood  gazing  at  her  legs  with  expressions 
which  suggested  a  sort  of  mental  paralysis,  although 
the  artist  may  have  intended  it  to  be  admiration. 
A  man  with  a  hooked  red  nose  and  greasy  curls 
under  a  top  hat  stood  at  the  entrance,  and  slapped 
the  legs  of  the  lady  in  the  picture  with  a  long  cane. 
Behind  him  a  faded  young  woman  in  tawdry 
finery  slaved  at  the  wheel  of  a  hand  organ,  and  then 
came  forward  with  a  bell.  The  crowd  seemed  so 
pleased  with  the  fat  lady's  portrait  that  they  had 
no  desire  to  see  the  lady  herself. 

While  Sam  was  joking  about  the  lady's  propor- 
tions, two  well-dressed  young  ladies  slipped  out  of 
the  crush  and  passed  the  curtains  which  hung  over 
the  entrance. 

"That  the  Miss  Kingsnortons,  isn't  it?"  said 
Sam. 

"Yes,"  said  John.  "I  shouldn't  have  thought  they 
would  go  in  a  place  like  that." 

"Curiosity,  my  boy,  and  mischief,  because  they 
know  their  mother  would  be  horrified.  Come  along, 
Maggie." 

Sam  took  Maggie's  arm,  and  drew  her  forward. 
John  followed  them  inside. 

The  Fat  Lady  was  not  so  fat  as  she  was  painted, 
and  Sam  told  her  so.  She  admitted  that  it  was  hard 
to  live  up  to  reputation,  but  she  declared  that  she 
was  quite  fat  enough,  and  how  would  he  like  it? 
When  he  wanted  to  pinch  her  leg  to  see  if  it  was 
real  flesh  under  her  red  stocking  she  threatened  to 
knock  him  down  and  sit  on  him.  He  feigned  terror, 


72  LITTLE  HOUSES 

sheltered  behind  Maggie,  and  then  ran,  dragging 
Maggie  with  him. 

"It's  a  swindle.  Most  of  these  shows  are,  of 
course,"  he  said,  when  they  were  outside. 

"Where's  John?"  said  Maggie. 

"I  don't  know.  Wasn't  he  in  front?  "  said 
Sam. 

Maggie  turned  back  to  look,  and  was  caught  in 
the  stream  of  people.  She  had  some  difficulty  in 
pushing  her  way  back  to  Sam.  There  was  no 
sign  of  John  anywhere.  Sam  insisted  that  it  would 
be  useless  to  go  back  into  the  show.  They  saw  the 
Kingsnorton  girls  in  the  crowd,  but  John  had 
completely  disappeared.  Maggie  lost  Sam  again, 
and  then  lost  several  valuable  moments  in  finding 
him. 

"Don't  let  me  lose  you,"  he  said,  and  took  her 
arm.  "We  shall  never  find  John  in  this  crush. 
Goodness  knows  where  he's  got  to,  the  rascal." 

She  gave  in  to  him  at  last. 

"It's  no  fault  of  ours,"  he  explained.  "He's  lost 
the  fun — we  haven't.  Two's  company,  Maggie, 
isn't  it?" 

Maggie  assented.  She  was  angry  with  John. 
From  one  of  Sam's  remarks  she  suspected  that  he 
might  have  had  some  reason  for  slipping  away. 
Perhaps  he  had  seen  some  girl  he  knew." 

"He  couldn't  have  waited,  or  we  should  have  seen 
him,  shouldn't  we?"  she  said. 

"It  don't  look  as  if  he  waited,"  said  Sam. 

It  was  not  the  answer  she  wanted. 

The  fun  was  rowdy  now.  Sam  had  to  fight  his 
way  through  the  crowd  where  he  found  himself 
against  the  stream,  and  Maggie  found  it  hard  to 
cling  to  him.  The  smell  of  trampled  turf  was 
stronger  than  ever.  In  the  main  ways  the  dust  hung 
in  a  golden  mist  before  the  flaring  lights.  Maggie 
wanted  to  go  home  now,  but  Sam  insisted  on  trying 


THE  PIE  FAIR  73 

to  knock  Aunt  Sally  over,  and  she  had  to  drag  him 
away.  At  the  next  stand,  where  wooden  balls  had 
to  be  thrown  into  boxes,  he  managed  to  win  a  tiny 
china  dog. 

"Something  to  remember  the  Fair  by,  anyhow," 
he  said  when  he  gave  it  to  Maggie. 

She  carried  it  in  her  hand,  along  with  a  bag  of 
gingerbreads  he  bought  her. 

He  insisted  on  taking  her  for  a  glass  of  wine 
before  she  went  home.  She  was  disquieted,  but  she 
assured  herself  that  she  couldn't  have  refused.  The 
"Heron"  was  packed  with  folk,  and  all  the  benches 
outside  were  filled.  They  had  to  go  into  a  marquee 
which  had  been  erected  in  the  field,  and  the  waiter 
kept  them  impatient  a  long  time  before  he  returned 
with  their  drinks.  Maggie  did  not  enjoy  her  wine. 
The  air  was  close,  reeking  of  tobacco  and  beer 
fumes,  and  the  odour  of  turf. 

"I'll  see  you  on  your  road  home,"  said  Sam. 

She  was  happy  again  when  they  set  out. 

"Hurrying  won't  make  three  minutes'  difference," 
he  assured  her,  and  she  was  content  to  go  at  his 
pace.  The  wine  had  flushed  her  pleasantly. 

The  medley  of  the  steam  organ's  tunes,  the 
whistles,  trumpets,  shots  in  the  shooting-galleries, 
all  blended  into  a  softened  canorous  whole  behind 
them. 

The  moon  was  up,  in  its  first  quarter,  giving  a 
thin  clearness  to  the  night,  and  there  was  a  pure 
freshness  in  the  air,  delightful  after  the  stenches  of 
the  Fair.  A  faint  white  mist  lay  on  the  fields,  soft- 
ening the  blackness  of  the  shadows.  The  lane 
was  quiet;  it  was  too  soon  for  many  folk  to 
be  returning,  and  this  was  not  the  main  way. 
Here  and  there  pairs  of  lovers  were  blotted  against 
the  hedge  bank,  and  standing  at  every  gateway. 
Sam  made  jokes  about  them.  Maggie  wondered  if 
John  Allday  had  come  along  the  lane  in  this  way, 


74  LITTLE  HOUSES 

or  if  he  were  still  among  the  crowd  and  hoping  to 
find  her.  She  had  very  little  to  say — she  was 
anxious  to  get  home,  and  her  mood  influenced  Sam. 
They  agreed  that  the  Fair  was  not  quite  so  big  as 
usual,  and  not  so  fine  as  it  had  been  years  ago, 
when  the  shows  were  all  wonderful,  and  the  Fat 
Lady  was  the  fattest  lady  on  earth,  and  the  boxers 
all  world's  champions,  and  the  cocoanuts  luxuries. 
They  lost  their  spontaneity  in  talk,  and  gradually 
fell  to  silence. 

Maggie  felt  a  little  thrill  when  Sam  took  her 
arm  and  put  it  in  his.  She  forgot  her  previous 
uneasiness  at  being  so  long  away  from  her  mother. 
Once  she  glanced  up  at  Sam  as  he  was  glancing  at 
her,  and  they  both  smiled.  This  was  better  than 
formal  conversation.  She  was  comforted  by  the 
pressure  of  his  arm.  He  was  a  handsome  young 
man,  and  had  left  the  Fair  specially  to  bring  her 
home.  She  was  proud  of  that. 

"I'm  tired,"  she  said. 

"You've  had  a  hard  week-end,  of  course,"  he  said 
sympathetically.  "I'm  sorry  your  mother's  ill.  Still, 
I'm  glad  it's  brought  you  back." 

He  squeezed  her  arm,  and  smiled. 

"It's  the  same  old  place,  you  see,"  he  told  her, 
"some  of  us  grown  up,  and  some  of  the  old  folks 
gone,  that's  all.  You  have  to  live  like  my  grand- 
father to  see  the  great  changes.  Aren't  you  glad 
to  see  it  again?" 

"Yes,  it's  nice,"  she  said. 

"I'm  a  restless  sort  of  creature,  in  my  mind," 
said  Sam.  "Often  I'm  as  miserable  as  can  be — 
curse  everything  and  everybody.  I've  been  for 
going  abroad  two  or  three  times.  Yet  somehow 
I  don't  go.  I  don't  like  to  leave  the  place — it's 
friendly.  If  I  went  I  should  be  that  homesick  I 
couldn't  rest;  and  there's  nothing  to  hold  me  here, 
really,  only  that  something  in  my  blood.  It's  funny. 


THE  PIE  FAIR  75 

John's  like  that  too.  We're  different  in  everything 
else.  A  fine  fellow,  John  is." 

Maggie  liked  him  for  that. 

They  passed  under  the  railway  and  entered  the 
town.  Sam  chose  the  quiet  ways,  and  presently  they 
came  into  Castle  Street 

"I'll  run  up  now,"  said  Maggie. 

He  clasped  her  hand. 

"It's  'good  night'  then,  not  'good-bye.'  You 
won't  be  going  away  yet,  will  you?"  said  he. 

"I  don't  expect  so." 

"That's  the  style.  I  hope  your  mother  goes  on 
all  right.  I  shall  come  up  to  ask." 

"Thank  you." 

He  smiled,  and  there  was  a  little  silence. 

"Good  night,  Lady  Margaret,"  he  said,  and  before 
she  was  aware  he  swung  off  his  hat,  bowed  over 
her  hand,  and  kissed  it  gallantly.  Then  he  turned 
and  went  striding  down  the  hill.  She  was  utterly 
astonished.  It  had  been  so  unexpected,  so  unreal, 
yet  so  like  Sam.  She  could  never  imagine  John 
doing  that. 

When  he  turned  she  waved  her  hand  to  him,  and 
he  raised  his  hat  with  a  gay  flourish.  Then 
she  went  hurrying  up  the  hill,  smiling  as  she 
went. 

She  was  approaching  the  crest,  and  another 
moment  would  see  her  in  the  house,  when  a  woman 
called  to  her  from  a  doorway: 

"Is  that  you,  Miss  Wheatley?" 

"Yes.  Do  you  want  me?"  said  Maggie,  impa- 
tient at  the  interruption. 

"I  thought  I'd  better  tell  you  as  you  come  up — 
your  poor  mother's  gone!" 

Maggie  shrunk,  with  a  sharp  physical  hurt. 

"Gone?"  she  repeated. 

"Yes,  poor  soul — very  peaceful,  though,  I 
believe.  Mrs.  Onions'  girl  Sarah  ran  for  the  doctor. 


76  LITTLE  HOUSES 

He's  just  been  an'  gone,  and  I  must  say  he  was  very 
quick." 

Maggie  ran  round  to  the  back  of  the  house.  The 
door  was  open,  and  Mrs.  Onions  was  talking  with 
two  of  her  daughters  and  another  neighbour  in  the 
sitting-room.  They  ceased  abruptly  when  Maggie 
entered,  and  she  crossed  the  room  and  mounted  the 
stairs  without  a  word  being  said.  Mrs.  Onions  rose 
quietly  and  followed  her. 

She  was  out  of  breath  when  she  reached  the  top* 
and  she  had  to  put  her  hand  on  the  jamb  of  the 
door  to  steady  herself.  Then  she  pushed  the  door 
and  walked  in.  Before  the  bed  she  stopped, 
as  though  her  limbs  had  of  a  sudden  become  rigid, 
incapable  of  movement.  She  had  no  tears,  no 
thought;  her  distress  was  all  within  her  corpo- 
real self. 

Mrs.  Onions  crossed  the  room  and  turned  up 
the  gas.  Mrs.  Wheatley  always  had  a  candle, 
for  economy,  and  it  was  still  burning  on  the  chest 
of  drawers,  very  low  in  the  candlestick  now,  and 
flickering. 

"She  hasn't  stirred,  you  see,"  she  said  gently; 
"might  ha'  just  fell  asleep." 

"I  didn't  know !    I  didn't  know !"  said  Maggie. 

"You  couldn't  ha'  done  anything,"  explained 
Mrs.  Onions,  in  sympathy.  "She  passed  away,  as 
you  might  say,  imperceptible.  I  was  talking  to  her, 
and  I  saw  she  looked  like  dozing.  She  went  very 
quiet.  I  felt  her  go,  more  than  I  could  say  I  saw 
her — like  a  little  fluttering — wings,  you  might  say. 
My  little  Willie  went  like  that — peaceful.  Good 
soul,  she's  safe  at  rest." 

Maggie's  tears  came  in  a  flood.  Sobbing,  she  fell 
on  her  knees  at  the  bedside. 

"That's  right,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Onions,  and 
patted  her  gently  on  the  shoulder.  Then  she 
went  downstairs.  "She's  having  a  good  cry,  poor 


THE  PIE  FAIR  77 

dear,"  she  announced  to  the  others.  "I  like  to 
see  'em  having  a  good  cry — it's  a  good  sign.  She's 
young,  and  you  can't  be  old  first.  I  never  knew 
what  my  mother  was  worth  till  I'd  got  my  own 
children." 

Mrs.  Onions  was  a  woman  of  much  experience. 
She  had  buried  her  father  and  mother,  and  her 
husband's  father  and  mother,  and  three  children, 
and  had  more  tales  to  tell  of  christenings  and  wed- 
dings and  buryings  than  any  other  woman  at 
Saint  Peter's  Mothers'  Meetings.  She  went  upstairs 
again  after  a  while.  Maggie  was  still  kneel- 
ing at  the  bedside.  When  Mrs.  Onions  touched 
her  she  rose  and  suffered  herself  to  be  led  down- 
stairs. The  two  neighbours  left  her  there  while 
they  performed  the  last  rites  for  the  dead.  Maggie 
heard  their  footsteps  to  and  fro.  Mrs.  Onions' 
girls  had  gone  home.  Bread  and  butter  and  cheese 
were  on  the  table,  and  there  was  a  glass  of  milk 
poured  out.  Maggie  sipped  a  little,  and  then 
began  to  eat  mechanically,  until  she  found  that  she 
was  hungry.  Her  gingerbread  had  been  turned  out 
on  a  plate;  she  ate  some,  and  her  thoughts  went 
to  Sam  Bloom.  Her  mother  had  been  dying  while 
she  was  at  the  Fair.  She  shivered,  and  looked 
round  furtively  as  though  she  were  guilty  of  some 
awful  deed,  and  some  one  might  be  watching 
her.  But  as  yet  her  sorrow  was  like  a  great 
heaviness  upon  her,  and  her  thoughts  scarcely  moved 
at  all. 

The  two  neighbours  came  down  again. 

"Been  eating  a  bit,  my  dear?"  said  Mrs.  Onions, 
kindly.  "That's  the  way.  We've  done  all  we  can 
till  morning.  She's  safe  with  the  Almighty  now. 
Ah!  that's  the  great  comfort." 

They  stayed  half  an  hour,  in  their  kindness 
keeping  Maggie  company,  and  ate  all  her  ginger- 
bread. She  had  no  interest  in  their  talk,  and 


78  LITTLE  HOUSES 

wondered  feebly  when  they  would  go,  that  she  migHt 
weep  in  solitude. 

When  they  had  gone  her  thoughts  seemed  to 
wake  from  torpor,  and  held  fearsome  revelry. 
She  wished  she  had  accepted  Mrs.  Onions'  offer 
to  let  the  eldest  girl  sleep  with  her.  It  was  too 
late  now.  A  desire  came  to  her  to  look  at  her 
mother  again,  and  although  it  filled  her  with  dread, 
she  knew  that  it  would  drive  her  upstairs  at 
last. 

She  was  trembling  when  she  stopped  on  the 
landing  outside  the  door.  A  horrid  feeling  told  her 
she  was  not  alone — the  same  kind  of  feeling  which 
had  frightened  her  in  the  dark  when  as  a  child  she 
went  down  to  the  cellar  or  into  any  other  dark 
place. 

She  opened  the  door;  the  gas  was  burning  very 
low,  a  mere  glimmer,  and  the  room  was  full  of 
shadows.  Then  she  went  hurriedly  across  and 
turned  it  up  so  high  that  it  sang  with  the  pressure. 
The  light  gave  her  courage  again. 

Her  mother's  face  had  grown  softer,  and  had  lost 
its  tired,  listless  air — she  looked  younger,  Maggie 
thought.  She  had  been  fond  of  her  mother,  as  most 
children  are — no  more.  Now  she  began  to  under- 
stand how  much  more  she  might  have  done  to  make 
her  mother  happy.  It  was  too  late  to  make  amends. 
Nothing — nothing  could  alter  the  past,  no  repent- 
ance could  touch  it.  This  thing  only  was  left,  this 
thing  she  was  afraid  of;  for  it  was  her  mother  no 
longer,  only  a  shape. 

She  accused  herself  bitterly. 

Presently  the  feeling  came  again  that  she  was 
not  alone.  There  was  some  intangible  being  watch- 
ing her  in  the  room.  She  fancied  she  heard  a  faint 
rustling  sound.  As  she  strained  to  listen,  she  heard 
her  own  heart  thudding,  louder  and  louder,  till  the 
blows  filled  the  room.  Then  came  the  rustling 


THE  PIE  FAIR  79 

again  behind  her.  Her  heart  gave  a  great  leap  of 
terror.  She  faced  about,  and  at  the  same  instant 
she  understood;  the  noise  was  at  the  window,  a 
moth  perhaps,  attracted  by  the  light.  She  pulled 
up  the  blind,  and  opened  the  window  at  the  bottom. 
Her  legs  were  tottering,  and  she  had  to  sit  down. 
The  cool  air  came  in,  reviving  her,  and  bringing 
the  soft  odours  of  flowers  and  grass,  and  the  in- 
definable freshness  of  September  night.  Lights 
twinkled  on  the  little  island  platform  of  the  station 
below,  and  here  and  there  beyond,  up  to  the  low 
shapes  of  the  hills.  Stars,  in  bright  multitudes,  filled 
the  sky. 

She  left  the  gas  low  when  she  went.  She  had 
not  the  courage  to  leave  herself  entirely  In  the  dark, 
and  she  had  also  a  vague  feeling  that  it  wouldn't 
be  right  to  leave  her  mother  without  any  light  at  all. 
Downstairs  she  sat  in  her  mother's  arm-chair,  and 
slowly  her  thoughts  strayed  through  her  memories, 
sad  pilgrims,  with  heavy  lingering  feet.  The  fire 
sank  to  its  last  feeble  glow,  dying  in  a  buff  mass  of 
ash.  Midnight  had  struck  soon  after  Mrs.  Onions 
went.  One  o'clock  struck  while  Maggie  was  still 
awake.  Her  eyelids  smarted,  and  little  night  shivers 
caught  her  from  time  to  time.  Her  thoughts  sank 
in  weariness.  Slowly  her  head  dropped,  and  she 
roused  herself  with  a  jerk,  but  her  head  drooped 
again  and  again,  until  at  last  she  fell  asleep. 

She  awoke  in  the  grey  of  dawn.  Her  limbs  were 
stiff  and  cramped,  and  she  was  very  cold.  Wearily 
she  went  upstairs  to  her  room,  undressed,  and  got 
into  bed.  At  eight  o'clock,  when  Mrs.  Onions  let 
herself  in  with  the  key,  she  found  her  sleeping 
soundly,  and  slipped  away  again  quietly  downstairs 
without  waking  her. 

"See  what  it  is  to  be  young !"  she  said  to  herself, 
as  she  bustled  about  in  preparation  for  a  busy  day. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  FAT  LADY 

JOHN  ALLDAY  was  more  attracted  by  the 
two  young  ladies  who  had  slipped  hurriedly 
into  the  show  before  him  than  by  the  Fat 
Lady  herself  on  her  dais.  One  glance  at  her  had 
been  enough.  While  Sam  was  chaffing  her,  John 
stood  at  the  rear  and  watched  Miss  Kingsnorton  and 
her  sister.  They  were  enjoying  themselves  merrily, 
laughing  at  Sam,  and  quite  unaware  that  anyone 
was  watching  them. 

When  Sam  ran  out  in  pretended  terror,  the  Fat 
Lady  turned  to  the  rest  of  her  audience. 

"There  now,  my  dears!"  she  exclaimed  in  an 
aggrieved  tone.  "How  would  you  like  to  have  to 
stand  that  sort  of  thing,  come  day,  go  day,  God 
send  Sunday?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Kingsnorton. 

"Of  course  you  don't  know.  None  of  you  know 
— and  you  don't  try  to  know!"  said  the  Fat  Lady, 
more  aggrieved  than  ever.  "You've  got  the  tears 
in  your  eyes  with  sympathy  for  a  dog  on  three  legs, 
or  a  tired  horse,  but  never  a  ha'porth  for  a  poor 
creature  like  me.  How'd  you  like  it,  sitting  'ere 
exposing  your  flesh  for  money?  Eh?  An'  they 
come  complaining  I  ain't  fat  enough!  Look  at 
them  for  legs."  She  lifted  her  skirts  to  show  the 
full  grandeur  of  her  red  stockings.  "Feel  'em — 
solid  flesh."  The  girls  shrunk  away.  The  Fat  Lady 

80 


THE  FAT  LADY  81 

perceived  John,  and  chuckled.  "You've  had  more 
than  your  penn'orth,  sir,"  she  told  him.  "I  was 
just  agivin'  my  feelings  a  bit  o'  hairing  to  the  young 
ladies." 

John  was  embarrassed.  Barbara  Kingsnorton 
had  stepped  back  and  was  at  his  side;  he  heard  her 
gurgles  of  suppressed  laughter.  Her  glance  caught 
his,  and  her  laughter  burst  out. 

"Ah,  my  dear,  it  ain't  a  laughing  matter  for  me," 
said  the  Fat  Lady  with  a  mournful  gusto  which 
showed  that  she  was  getting  some  sort  of  enjoy- 
ment out  of  the  sound  of  her  own  woes.  "I've  got 
to  do  this  for  a  living.  There's  my  daughter  to 
keep,  and  her  two  babies — and  her  'usband  an'  all, 
the  good-for-nothing,  idle  vagabond  he  is,  an'  I 
don't  care  if  'e  'ears  me  say  it — 'im  smoking  his 
cigar  at  the  door  there." 

She  raised  her  voice  aggressively. 

"I  daresay  it's  hard,"  said  Marian  Kingsnorton. 

"Hard,  my  dear!  It's  cruel  'ardl  Do  you 
believe  me,  I  was  as  slim  as  you  are  when  I  got 
married — well,  very  near.  I  don't  know  how  I 
come  to  blow  up  like  this.  We  had  a  nice  little 
business,  doin'  well,  an'  I  kep'  it  on  a  good  while 
after  my  poor  husband  died — a  firewood  business 
an'  ladies'  wardrobe — only  for  my  infirmity — I  got 
as  I  couldn't  walk  about.  An'  then  my  daughter 
Emily  took  up  with  this  Jew  feller;  I  never  could 
abear  him.  'You  mark  my  words,'  I  says  to  her 
many  a  time,  I  says,  'he'll  Isaac  yer  afore  you've 
done.'  An'  I  never  said  a  truer  word.  As  soon  as 
ever  they  were  married  he  started  goin'  into  'is 
tantrums.  There  was  me  with  Isaac  on  my  back, 
an'  his  wife,  an'  the  two  babies,  one  after  th'  other 
in  no  time.  It  was  him  got  me  persuaded  into  this 
business.  What  can  you  do?  If  I  'ave  'im  up 
in  front  of  the  magistrates  they  laugh  at  me,  an' 
they  just  say  to  'im,  'Now,  Isaac,  my  lad,  you'll 


82  LITTLE  HOUSES 

have  to  behave  better  than  this.'  The  ol*  fools! 
The  last  time  I  had  him  up  they  fined  him  ten 
shillings  an'  costs,  an'  I  had  to  pay,  for  the  children's 
sake.  He  laughed  at  me.  'How  can  one  man  earn 
enough  to  feed  'er?'  he  told  'em,  and  they  laughed 
an'  all.  I  see  'em  as  plain  as  could  be.  There's  Isaac 
for  you!" 

Barbara  Kingsnorton  looked  at  John,  and  smiled. 

"Can't  you  take  your  daughter  away?"  suggested 
her  sister. 

"That's  the  worst  of  it,  my  dear,"  said  the  Fat 
Lady.  "She  thinks  she's  fond  of  him." 

"Can't  you  run  away?" 

The  Fat  Lady  looked  down  at  her  legs  and 
smiled. 

"I  should  look  well  running,  shouldn't  I?"  she 
said  dolefully.  "This  ain't  th'  only  show,  my 
dear.  There's  the  cocoanuts — that's  mine — and  th' 
Aunt  Sally.  It  was  my  idea  to  dress  her  so  well 
so  as  her  clothes  fly  up  when  she's  knocked  over. 
It  makes  the  young  folks  laugh.  Business,  my  dear. 
I  want  the  children  nicely  settled,  out  o'  the 
show  line  altogether.  If  it  wasn't  for  Isaac's 
carryings-on " 

She  broke  off  suddenly,  and  asked  the  girls  very 
eagerly,  "What  would  you  do?" 

John  caught  Barbara  Kingsnorton's  whisper, 
"Diet." 

"I  should  starve  myself  too  thin  for  this  business, 
and  make  him  work,"  he  suggested. 

The  Fat  Lady  shook  her  head. 

"No,  sonny,  not  at  my  time  o'  life.  I  couldn't 
do  it.  I've  got  too  fond  o'  my  victuals." 

A  party  of  sightseers  came  into  the  tent,  Isaac 
leading  them  and  explaining  in  his  best  style: 

"Yes,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  twenty  stone  is  the 
lady's  weight,  as  you  can  test  by  lifting  her — any 
gentleman  who  cares  to  try.  None  of  your  human 


83 

pincushion,   stuffed  with  bran  and  sawdust — real 
flesh  and  blood,  like  your  own,  only  more  of  it." 

The  Fat  Lady  stood  up,  and  donned  her  profes- 
sional smile. 

"Any  gentleman  like  to  take  me  on  his  knee  a 
minute?" 

Isaac  led  the  laughter  discreetly.  Barbara  Kings- 
norton  smiled  to  John,  and  then  went  after  her  sister 
from  the  tent. 

There  was  a  curtain  at  the  back  covering  another 
exit.  John  pulled  it  aside,  and  slipped  out.  The 
girls  had  disappeared  in  the  crowd,  and  he  pushed 
his  way  forward  some  distance,  hoping  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  them.  Then  he  recollected  Sam  and 
Maggie,  and  began  to  return.  He  thought  he  saw 
Maggie's  hat,  and  he  went  some  distance  out  of  his 
way  in  pursuit  before  he  discovered  his  mistake. 
Back  he  came  again,  hurrying.  A  friend  stopped 
him  for  several  moments.  Then  he  saw  the  Kings- 
norton  girls  again,  and  he  had  to  watch  them  awhile. 
When  at  length  he  was  by  the  Fat  Lady  show 
neither  Sam  nor  Maggie  was  to  be  seen.  John  was 
disappointed,  and  inclined  to  be  annoyed.  He  knew 
he  had  wasted  time,  but  he  said  they  had  not  waited 
long  enough. 

He  walked  slowly  away,  and  after  a  while  he  saw 
Miss  Kingsnorton  and  her  sister  again.  They  were 
standing  out  of  the  main  stream  of  people,  talking 
to  young  Benlow — Willie  Benlow,  whom  John  had 
known  at  school,  now  become  William  Benlow  the 
musician.  "Five  feet  in  height  and  fifty  feet  in 
importance,"  Sam  Bloom  called  him.  Sam  would 
not  forgive  him  for  having  gone  from  the  Parish 
Church  Schools  to  the  Grammar  School,  when  he 
had  been  forced  to  go  to  work.  Benlow  had  been 
studying  in  London.  The  whole  town  had  been 
discreetly  reminded  from  time  to  time  by  para- 
graphs in  the  local  paper.  He  had  already  per- 


84  LITTLE  HOUSES 

formed  at  several  provincial  concerts,  and  there 
were  hints  of  a  grand  debut  in  London.  His 
concert  at  Pedley  Hill  had  become  an  annual. 
John  had  not  known  him  since  his  schooldays  until 
this  year,  when  they  had  been  reintroduced  at 
Binnses'  works'  dinner  and  smoking  concert.  John 
had  been  one  of  the  singers.  Willie  Benlow  had 
been  at  home  on  holiday,  and  had  played  the  piano 
"for  the  workmen  to  talk  to."  That  was  his  own 
expression  to  John.  Actually  he  had  played  for  the 
workmen  to  talk  about.  It  was  all  advertisement — 
and  there  was  a  good  fee  too,  for  a  young  man  on 
holiday. 

John  watched  the  three  talking,  and  when  at 
length  Willie  Benlow  was  alone  he  went  up  to  speak 
to  him,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  would  say,  and 
not  expecting  any  sort  of  welcome.  Vaguely  he  felt 
that  as  Barbara  Kingsnorton  had  just  been  chatting 
with  young  Benlow  he  would  in  some  way  be  ap- 
proaching nearer  to  her. 

He  made  a  show  of  jocularity. 

"You  haven't  come  to  get  inspiration  from  the 
Fair  music,  I  suppose?" 

"Hallo,  Allday,"  said  Benlow,  with  good- 
humoured  condescension.  "I  should  have  thought 
you'd  be  on  the  roundabouts  with  your  best  girl." 

"I  see  you  didn't  take  the  Miss  Kingsnortons  on," 
said  John. 

"It  isn't  quite  in  our  line." 

John  laughed  at  the  other's  dignity. 

"They've  been  with  me  seeing  the  Fattest 
Lady  on  earth,  if  they  haven't  been  on  the  wooden 
horses." 

The  story  gave  an  excellent  excuse  for  staying  to 
talk. 

"I  know  Barbara's  full  of  mischief,"  said  Benlow, 
growing  much  more  friendly  now.  "I've  met  her 
in  town  occasionally — in  London,  you  know." 


THE  FAT  LADY  85 

"She's  very  clever,  isn't  she?"  said  John.  "I 
heard  she  could  make  her  fortune  on  the  stage  if 
only  her  parents  let  her  go." 

"She  might,"  said  Benlow,  and  he  tapped  John 
lightly  on  the  chest.  "There's  a  good  many  people 
might,  but,  somehow,  they  don't." 

"It's  hard,  I  suppose?" 

"My  dear  fellow,  it's  the  devil !" 

His  emphasis  seemed  to  exhaust  his  stock  of  con- 
versation. John  began  to  feel  that  he  ought  to 
invent  some  excuse  for  going.  While  he  was  still 
hesitating,  a  girl's  voice  close  by  exclaimed,  "Here's 
Willie !"  and  he  saw  Benlow's  sister  with  her  father 
and  mother. 

"You  said  you  weren't  coming  round,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  I  changed  my  mind,"  said  Willie.  "I'm  just 
looking  on." 

"We've  come  to  enjoy  it,"  she  told  him  em- 
phatically. 

John  was  embarrassed,  and  wanted  to  retreat. 
He  was  about  to  slip  away  when  Mr.  Benlow  spoke 
to  him. 

"Mr.  Allday's  son,  isn't  it?" 

John  stammered.  Willie  Benlow  introduced  him, 
and  they  all  shook  hands. 

"Didn't  I  meet  you  at  the  Grammar  School  sports 
in  the  summer,"  said  Willie's  sister?" 

John  felt  himself  blushing. 

"It  wasn't  me.  I  wasn't  at  the  Grammar  School," 
he  explained. 

"You  were  going,  though,  once,  weren't  you?" 
said  Willie,  catching  a  recollection. 

"Yes,  I  was;  but  father  was  ill — and — well,  I 
couldn't." 

Mrs.  Benlow  soothed  his  humour. 

"I  believe  I  remember  your  mother  telling  me.  I 
never  see  her  now,  hardly.  I  never  get  out,  you 
know.  You  went  to  Binnses,  didn't  you?" 


86  LITTLE  HOUSES 

"I'm  still  there,"  said  John,  struggling  to  pride. 

"I'll  tell  you  where  you've  seen  Mr.  Allday, 
Elsie,"  said  Mr.  Benlow  to  his  daughter — "at  the 
little  church  at  Nickling.  He  sang  the  solo  that  day 
Wilkins  was  to  go  and  was  ill." 

"He  knew  I  happened  to  know  it,  and  sent  for 
me,"  explained  John,  delighted. 

"I  wasn't  there  that  Sunday,"  said  Elsie  Ben- 
low. 

John  was  enjoying  himself  now.  Once  he 
wondered  if  he  ought  to  go,  but  decided  against 
it;  the  others  seemed  pleased  that  he  should  stay. 
He  liked  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Benlow.  There  was  some- 
thing homely  and  hospitable  about  them  which 
appealed  to  him.  He  admired  Elsie's  frank  man- 
ner, and  accepted  it  as  a  special  graciousness  to 
himself. 

Mr.  Benlow  was  a  short,  pompous  man,  with  a 
protuberance  upon  his  figure  as  though  half  a 
plum  pudding  had  been  fitted  neatly  under  his  waist- 
coat. He  was  a  painter  and  decorator,  and  lived 
in  an  old-fashioned  house  in  the  Bullen,  the 
house  covering  his  own  showroom  and  several 
other  shops.  The  yard  was  at  the  back,  and  reached 
through  a  covered  entry.  His  wife  was  shorter 
than  he,  and  fatter,  and  very  mrwieldy  in  her  move- 
ments. John  liked  her  instinctively.  He  did  not 
seek  to  understand  how  his  liking  had  grown  out 
of  her  speaking  of  his  mother  as  though  they  were 
old  friends,  and  her  memory  of  his  going  to  work 
after  his  father's  illness.  It  came  as  a  most  de- 
lectable surprise — Mrs.  Benlow  seemed  to  have  been 
interested  in  him  for  a  long  time.  Others  might  be 
interested  too.  His  new  feeling  of  importance 
brought  him  confidence,  and  he  chatted  more 
freely. 

"The  Fair's  a  grand  place  when  you're 
youngsters."  said  Mr.  Benlow.  "When  you  begin 


THE  FAT  LADY  87 

to  find  it  rowdy  and  common,  it's  as  sure  as  rheu- 
matism you're  getting  old." 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  an  old  man,  then,"  said  his 
son. 

"You're  a  humbug,  Willie.  Isn't  he,  Mr.  All- 
day?"  said  Elsie. 

"You  know  best,"  said  John,  enjoying  himself. 

"Come  on!"  said  Mr.  Benlow.  "Nobody's  eaten 
any  gingerbread,  or  rock,  or  cocoanuts  yet.  It  isn't 
the  Fair  that's  changed,  it's  the  young  generation, 
mother." 

They  were  standing  near  a  tall  wooden  erection, 
with  a  bell  at  the  top.  A  group  of  men  stood 
before  it,  and  one  after  another  took  a  long-handled 
heavy  mallet,  gave  it  a  mighty  swing,  and  brought 
it  down  with  full  force  on  a  wooden  anvil.  Up 
shot  a  pointer,  soaring  towards  the  top  of  the  scale, 
then  hesitated,  stopped,  and  slid  down  again,  and 
a  dirty-faced  man  caught  it  on  a  pad.  Occa- 
sionally the  pointer  struck  the  bell  at  the  top — not 
often. 

"Remember  how  I  won  you  the  pair  of  gloves, 
mother?"  said  Mr.  Benlow. 

He  looked  up  at  the  bell,  and  swung  his  arm. 

"I  wouldn't  try,  Joe,  now,"  said  Mrs.  Benlow. 

"What — am  I  too  old  ?"  He  laughed,  and  pointed 
with  his  thumb  to  Willie.  "I  can  shame  that  young 
gentleman  yet." 

He  punched  Willie  in  the  chest,  and  told  him 
gaily  to  come  along.  Then  he  went  to  the  dirty- 
faced  man  and  demanded  the  mallet. 

"Knock  the  bell  right  off  the  top,  Mr.  Benlow !" 
said  a  man  in  the  crowd. 

Mr.  Benlow  swung  the  mallet  to  and  fro  to  free 
his  arms,  and  then  heaved  himself  for  his  great 
effort. 

The  pointer  climbed  reluctantly  about  half- 
way up  the  scale.  Mr.  Benlow  was  surprised, 


88  LITTLE  HOUSES 

and  resented  the  proffered  encouragement.  He 
took  off  his  coat  for  the  second  try  and  turned 
back  the  cuffs  of  his  white  shirt.  Willie  was 
disgusted. 

The  pointer  shot  up  this  time,  but  lost  its  mo- 
mentum a  long  way  from  the  bell.  At  a  third  try 
it  climbed  higher — at  a  fourth  no  more  than  half 
way.  The  crowd  cheered.  Mr.  Benlow  forgot  his 
disappointment  in  Willie's  discomfiture  when  he 
thrust  the  mallet  handle  against  his  chest  and  invited 
him  to  try. 

"Show  him  how  to  do  it,  Allday,"  said  Mr. 
Benlow. 

John  took  the  mallet.  He  had  used  a  sledge 
hammer  at  the  works  for  fun,  and  he  knew  how  to 
swing  the  mallet.  He  knew,  too,  that  he  was  strong. 
It  was  not  entirely  strength  which  was  needed, 
however;  there  was  a  trick  in  bringing  the  mallet 
down.  He  was  anxious,  afraid  of  failure.  Quietly 
he  prepared,  striving  to  hide  how  he  put  out  all 
his  strength,  so  that  the  feat  would  look  easy.  Mrs. 
Benlow  and  Elsie  were  watching  him. 

The  pointer  flew  up  to  the  bell  and  hit  it  with  a 
great  clang. 

Mr.  Benlow  patted  John  on  the  shoulder,  and  the 
crowd  applauded.  John  felt  his  ears  burn. 

"Every  man  to  his  own  tool,"  said  Willie  Benlow. 

John  didn't  like  the  tone,  but  he  was  pleased  with 
himself,  and  said  nothing  in  retort. 

"You  don't  work  with  hammers  that  big,  do 
you?"  said  Mrs.  Benlow. 

"No,"  said  John.  "I'm  a  fitter — an  engineer,  you 
know." 

"I  thought " 

John  enjoyed  himself  splendidly.  He  used  the 
word  "splendidly"  to  express  his  satisfaction  when 
he  met  a  friend  on  his  way  home,  and  he 
repeated  it  to  himself  afterwards.  He  thanked 


THE  FAT  LADY  89 

the  Fat  Lady  for  all  his  pleasure.  If  he  had  not 
been  to  see  her,  he  reminded  himself,  he  wouldn't 
have  seen  the  Miss  Kingsnortons,  and  then  he 
wouldn't  have  stopped  to  speak  to  Willie  Benlow. 
The  Benlows  were  very  nice  people — very  nice. 
Willie  was  full  of  his  own  conceit,  but  he  couldn't 
help  that;  it  came  from  living  in  London,  no 
doubt — he  was  a  musician,  and  wore  his  hair 
long,  and  he  had  to  be  different  from  other  people. 
His  sister  was  a  nice  girl.  She  knew  the  Miss 
Kingsnortons  well;  she  had  been  to  school  with 
Barbara,  she  had  told  him  to-night.  He  might 
be  introduced  to  them  some  day — it  wasn't 
impossible.  His  fancy  soared,  and  he  began  an 
imaginary  conversation  with  Miss  Benlow  and 
Barbara  Kingsnorton,  and  then  chatted  with 
Barbara  alone,  reminded  her  of  Binnses'  bonfire 
and  her  silver  brooch.  This  brought  his  thoughts 
to  Maggie  Wheatley  and  Sam  Bloom,  but  only  for 
an  instant.  He  reacted  fragments  of  his  evening, 
shaping  them  anew,  decking  them  with  pleasant 
might-have-beens.  There  was  a  fine  satisfaction 
in  recollecting  how  he  had  sent  the  pointer  rushing 
up  to  the  bell,  and  in  how  the  others  had  com- 
plimented him.  He  had  knocked  over  Aunt 
Sally  with  his  first  ball  when  Maggie  Wheatley  had 
persuaded  him  to  try;  he  had  enjoyed  that,  and 
had  believed  it  due  to  his  own  skill,  although  he  had 
assured  her  it  was  luck.  Now  he  did  not  even 
remember  it.  He  wished  that  Barbara  Kingsnorton 
had  seen  him.  with  the  mallet.  Elsie  Benlow 
might  tell  her.  It  was  absurd,  of  course,  to  think 
so,  utterly  absurd,  and  deliciously  absurd.  John 
held  his  head  high,  and  put  his  walking  stick  down 
each  time  with  a  prod — like  Mr.  Kingsnorton  when 
he  went  to  church,  he  thought,  when  he  noticed 
what  he  was  doing.  He  held  his  broad  shoulders 
square,  and  made  the  most  of  his  five  and  a  half 


90  LITTLE  HOUSES 

feet  of  height.  John  Allday,  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life,  felt  that  he  was  as  important  as  the  Mayor, 
and  far  more  interesting. 

He  was  one  of  the  best  fitters  at  Binnses  now, 
and  trusted.  Ambition  had  grown  in  him  very 
slowly,  and  he  had  been  quite  satisfied  with  his 
progress;  his  wages  were  good,  and  his  wants 
modest.  Already  he  had  saved  a  small  sum,  and 
had  invested  it,  some  in  the  brick-making  business 
beyond  Selbridge,  and  some  in  a  small  scrap-iron 
yard.  His  father  advised  him,  and  kept  an  eye  on 
the  affairs.  John  left  all  the  initiative  to  his  father. 
The  old  man  was  still  able  to  get  about  in  fine 
weather,  and  had  a  keen  business  perception.  Dur- 
ing the  years  since  he  had  not  worked  he  had  man- 
aged to  increase  his  small  capital  by  careful  invest- 
ments in  local  affairs  which  he  understood. 

For  years  John  had  been  to  evening  classes  in 
Selbridge,  first  to  the  ordinary  night  school,  and 
then  to  the  engineering  course  at  the  Technical 
Institute.  He  had  begun  because  his  father  in- 
sisted, and  later  he  had  continued  because  there 
was  more  amusement  in  the  classes  than  in  public- 
houses  and  club-rooms.  The  classes  were  not 
particularly  interesting  in  themselves,  but  there 
was  some  definite  aim  in  going.  The  train  journey 
was  pleasant — the  waiting  on  the  platform,  the 
coming  of  a  locomotive,  the  travelling.  Sel- 
bridge was  a  busy  city  after  Pedley  Hill.  He 
didn't  care  for  billiards,  and  his  head  couldn't 
stand  much  beer.  He  was  not  a  ladies'  man,  and 
had  never  ventured  beyond  the  ordinary  flirtations 
of  youth.  From  what  he  had  seen  of  his  friends 
it  seemed  that  a  young  fellow  walked  out  with  a 
girl  for  a  bit  of  fun,  and  walked  in  with  her  for  a 
bit  of  supper,  and  the  door  closed  behind  him  like 
the  door  of  a  mousetrap.  His  father  kept  a  store 
of  advice  for  the  society  of  young  folk:  "It  does 


THE  FAT  LADY  91 

a  man  good  to  get  married  and  have  a  family. 
It  shows  him  what  a  young  nuisance  he  was  him- 
self. ...  A  woman  may  be  very  unhappily  mar- 
ried, but  she  can  always  boast  she  isn't  an  old  maid. 
.  .  .  It's  only  married  folk  can  be  really  happy,  be- 
cause they  know  what  worry  is."  At  the  works  the 
married  men  chaffed  the  bachelors,  and  the  bachelors 
chaffed  the  married  men ;  nobody  could  be  quite  sure 
how  much  of  the  others'  joking  came  from  imagina- 
tion, and  how  much  from  experience. 

To-night  John's  thoughts  all  bowed  down  before 
the  image  of  Barbara  Kingsnorton.  He  admired 
her  as  he  might  admire  a  lovely  picture  in  a  gallery, 
without  covetousness  or  any  thought  of  possession. 
Like  Willie  Benlow,  she  had  been  in  London  for 
several  years.  She  was  studying  elocution,  or 
art.  She  was  travelling  abroad  with  Mr.  Kings- 
norton's  elder  brother  and  his  family.  These 
things  were  spoken  of  from  time  to  time,  without 
appearing  in  the  paper,  like  Willie  Benlow's  astute 
paragraphs.  The  Kingsnortons  went  to  London 
every  year  in  June  for  a  holiday  with  their  relations. 
Mrs.  Wheatley  went  there  to  sew,  and  always  had 
a  store  of  fashion  gossip  to  give  her  acquaintances 
when  the  Kingsnortons  had  returned.  Thus  John 
heard  fragments  from  his  mother,  who  met  Mrs. 
Wheatley  occasionally  on  market  days. 

John  decided  that  he  would  go  on  Sunday  morn- 
ings to  the  little  church  at  Nickling;  it  would  be  a 
nice  walk  on  fine  days.  Mrs.  Kingsnorton  was  in- 
terested in  the  little  place,  and  Marian  sometimes 
played  the  organ  for  morning  service.  Barbara 
would  be  there  sometimes,  for  sure.  John  had  sung 
there  in  the  summer  one  day  that  George  Wilkins 
was  to  sing ;  he  had  sent  for  John  at  the  last  minute 
to  take  his  place.  The  Kingsnortons  were  not  there 
that  day,  but  he  might  get  himself  asked  again,  and 
they  would  be  there. 


92  LITTLE  HOUSES 

Singing  and  cycling  were  John's  recreations. 
He  was  not  a  member  of  the  new  town  bicycle 
club,  though  Sam  Bloom  was.  It  did  not  satisfy 
his  idea  of  recreation  to  rush  in  dusty  file  along 
the  lanes  on  Saturday  afternoons,  in  extraordinary 
costume,  with  buglers  in  front  and  rear,  and  a 
football  to  be  blown  up  and  kicked  in  a  field 
adjoining  some  public-house.  He  had  learnt  on  a 
high  ordinary  which  he  had  bought  second-hand, 
and  he  had  been  very  proud,  coasting  down  the 
hills  with  his  legs  cocked  up  over  the  handle-bars. 
Now  he  pottered  about  on  a  safety,  stopping  when 
he  had  a  mind  to  watch  the  scenery,  or  to  gather 
nosegays  of  wild  flowers  to  deck  his  mother's 
Sunday  table.  The  birds  and  flowers  were  always 
friendly;  they  always  had  something  to  show  him, 
because  he  stopped  to  look;  they  never  had  any- 
thing for  those  who  had  to  be  shouted  at  to  have 
their  attention  roused.  His  bicycle  was  a  heavy  one, 
with  cushion  tyres,  not  the  new-fashioned  wind- 
filled  sausages  that  were  becoming  all  the  rage.  Sam 
Bloom  had  been  one  of  the  first  to  have  pneumatic 
tyres  on  his  machine.  John  was  suspicious  of  new- 
fangled things.  He  sang  at  the  bicycle  club's  annual 
dinners  to  please  Sam. 

He  had  attended  music  classes  at  Selbridge 
Institute  as  a  recreation  from  his  engineering  work. 
For  a  long  time  he  kept  it  secret  from  his  friends, 
for  fear  they  might  laugh  at  him.  At  the  classes 
he  was  very  shy  at  first,  for  the  students  were  mostly 
young  ladies;  he  never  guessed  that  they  liked  him 
for  his  shyness.  His  father  had  been  an  enthusi- 
astic member  of  a  glee  club  in  his  young  days.  His 
mother  had  no  idea  of  song  whatever,  but  she  liked 
a  hymn  o'  Sundays,  especially  if  she  didn't  go  to 
evening  service.  John  sat  at  the  harmonium  he  had 
bought,  and  they  all  sang  together.  His  mother 
generally  complained  that  the  tune  was  a  bit  high, 


THE  FAT  LADY  93 

or  a  bit  low,  or  her  throat  was  a  bit  husky,  but 
she  always  said  she  enjoyed  it,  and  blushed  if  they 
praised  her  singing.  She  gave  them  something 
special  for  supper  afterwards. 

Sam  Bloom  came  sometimes.  He  always  ex- 
plained he  hadn't  come  to  stay,  he  had  only 
popped  in  to  see  how  Mr.  Allday  was,  but  he 
always  stayed  to  supper  when  they  asked  him.  Mr. 
Allday  brought  out  all  his  best  stories,  and  Sam 
never  seemed  to  be  conscious  of  having  heard  one 
of  them  before.  John  wondered  why  Sam  showed 
so  much  liking  and  respect  for  his  father  and 
mother.  Mrs.  Allday  explained  that  it  was  because 
he  had  never  known  father  and  mother  of  his  own, 
and  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  have  a  good 
home.  John  agreed  that  it  might  be  the  true  ex- 
planation— he  was  not  sure.  He  couldn't  under- 
stand life  without  home,  or  mother  and  father.  Cer- 
tain people  existed  without  them,  of  course,  but  he 
made  no  serious  effort  to  understand  them;  he 
had  not  yet  tried  to  understand  himself.  It  was 
very  pleasant  to  be  alive — there  was  always  some- 
thing to  look  forward  to.  Sometimes  his  father 
said  to  him,  "Ah,  my  lad,  you  don't  know  you're 
born."  He  thought  it  was  one  of  his  father's 
feeblest  jokes. 

A  host  of  stars  decked  the  southern  sky  before 
him — "the  old  man  with  the  watering-pot,  the  fish 
with  glittering  scales."  John  smiled  gently  to  him- 
self, and  his  thoughts  jigged  to  a  merry  vulgar  tune 
picked  up  at  the  Fair. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  GLEE  SINGERS 

JOHN'S  father  and  mother  had  finished  their 
frugal  supper  when  he  arrived,  and  were  en- 
joying one  of  those  interminable  fireside  con- 
versations, where  nothing  of  importance  is  ever 
said,  and  the  pleasure  is  all  in  the  kindly  feeling  of 
companionship. 

"You  haven't  seen  Tom  Bevan,  have  you?  He's 
been  here  after  you,"  said  John's  father. 

"No — what  does  he  want?" 

"They  want  you  in  the  glee  singers,"  said  Mrs. 
Allday,  eager  to  tell  the  good  news.  "Mr.  Wilkins 
has  gone  to  Yorkshire — he's  got  a  better  job  in 
Middlesborough — it  is  Middlesborough,  isn't  it, 
father?  He  recommended  'em  to  ask  you.'* 

"They  look  like  having  a  busy  season,  accord- 
ing to  what  Tom  Bevan  says,"  said  Mr.  Allday. 
"Miss  Kingsnorton's  doing  something  with  'em,  he 
didn't  say  exactly  what  it  was.  He'd  been  up  to 
see  her." 

"She  wasn't  in,"  said  John.  "She  was  with  me 
seeing  the  Fattest  Lady  on  Earth." 

He  laughed  at  their  astonishment,  and  told  them 
of  his  evening's  adventures. 

They  sat  up  much  later  than  usual,  talking  about 
the  glee  singers,  and  pushing  John  gaily  up  an 
imaginary  social  tree.  His  mother  had  to  relate 
all  her  anecdotes  of  Mrs,  Kingsnorton,  "Miss 

94 


THE  GLEE  SINGERS  95 

Horden  as  was,"  and  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Benlow,  too. 
John  was  interested  in  them  as  he  had  never  been 
before,  and  his  attention  so  stirred  his  mother's 
memory  that  she  recollected  several  things  which 
John  had  not  previously  heard.  Her  father  had 
sold  eggs  to  Mrs.  Benlow's  father,  and  she  remem- 
bered Mr.  Benlow  when  he  used  to  go  courting.  It 
was  wonderful  how  she  remembered  things;  John 
and  his  father  told  her  so  until  she  blushed  with 
delight.  When  she  didn't  exactly  remember,  she 
knew  what  she  had  been  told  by  somebody  who 
remembered.  The  details  sprouted  in  all  directions, 
and  grew  up  like  mint  stems  for  lustiness.  If 
they  hadn't  let  the  fire  out  through  being  so  enrapt 
in  her  stories,  and  if  the  nights  hadn't  begun  to 
have  a  chill  in  them,  Mr.  Allday  assured  her  she 
might  have  talked  the  sun  up.  Nevertheless,  she 
was  awake  as  fresh  as  could  be  at  half  past  five  to 
call  John  so  that  he  should  not  lose  a  quarter  at 
his  work.  When  she  recollected  that  he  had  not  to 
go  till  after  breakfast  it  made  her  extra  rest  all  the 
more  enjoyable. 

The  Selvalley  Glee  Singers  were  Pedley  Hill's 
especial  pride.  Selbridge  had  music  classes  at 
its  Institute,  and  big  concerts,  the  biggest  organ 
for  miles  round,  the  best  organist,  the  best  brass 
band.  Selbridge  had  a  choral  society  which  sang 
Handel,  and  Haydn,  and  Mendelssohn,  and  other 
great  foreigners,  but  Selbridge  had  no  glee  singers 
like  those  in  Pedley  Hill  to  sing  the  gems  of  Doctor 
Cooke,  Webbe,  Sir  Henry  Bishop,  and  the  other 
great  English  glee  writers.  Therefore,  Selbridge 
was  just  a  big,  sprung-up  place,  conceited  about 
nothing.  Pedley  Hill  was  old  and  conservative, 
respectful  of  traditions,  and  now  in  a  swiftly 
moving  age  was  struggling  doggedly — some  said 
absurdly — to  press  back  the  invading  host  of 
progress,  or  decadence,  or  newfangled  fashions, 


96  LITTLE  HOUSES 

or  whatever  the  orators  liked  to  call  the  new  wine 
which  was  bursting  the  old  bottles.  Pedley  Hill 
enthusiasts  stated  rightly  that  glee  singing  was 
as  truly  English  as  the  great  anthems,  and  was 
becoming  a  lost  art,  alas!  in  a  country  where 
musical  art  was  wreak,  because  the  people  ran  after 
strange  gods;  and  it  was  all  true,  but  nobody 
listened  except  the  enthusiasts,  who  only  listened 
to  one  another.  Selbridge  grew  more  modern 
and  aggressive  every  year.  Its  football  team 
attracted  half  Pedley  Hill  on  winter  Saturday 
afternoons,  it  was  so  good.  That,  however,  did  not 
prove  much  in  Selbridge's  favour.  None  of  the 
players  belonged  to  the  place,  and  the  limited  com- 
pany which  hired  them  didn't  pay  a  dividend.  The 
Selvalley  Glee  Singers  were  Pedley  Hill  men,  who 
sang  for  the  love  of  it,  working  men,  some  of  them, 
upon  whom  a  social  prestige  was  conferred  by  their 
art.  They  had  sung  part-songs  in  Welsh  compe- 
titions, and  would  have  won  prizes  if  there  had  not 
been  so  many  Welsh  singers  against  them.  It  wasn't 
of  any  use  trying  to  beat  Welsh  singers  in  Wales ; 
a  man  might  as  well  try  to  look  dignified  in  a 
donkey-cart. 

Binnses  was  the  last  works  in  the  district  to  keep 
the  old  Pie  Fair  holiday,  and  even  at  Binnses  it 
had  shrunk  from  a  wTeek  to  a  single  day.  A  few 
men  would  come  in  after  breakfast  on  the  Tuesday 
morning,  and  most  of  them  would  knock  off  at  mid- 
day. A  few  would  stroll  as  far  as  the  works'  gates 
to  look  at  them,  as  a  schoolboy  delights  to  see  the 
empty  schoolyard  in  the  holidays.  All  the  steady 
men  would  be  in  on  Wednesday. 

John  woke  early,  from  habit;  the  daylight  was 
peeping  in  beside  the  blind.  Then  he  dozed 
again,  enjoying  a  drowsy  content,  his  thoughts 
lingering  still  in  the  land  where  no  shape  is  clear, 
and  reality  is  not  real  enough.  He  was  going  to 


THE  GLEE  SINGERS  97 

be  one  of  the  Selvalley  Glee  Singers — he  had 
no  fear  that  he  might  fail  when  he  came  to  trial. 
He  would  see  Tom  Bevan  to-night,  for  sure;  that 
meant  concerts,  social  position — oh!  wonderful 
things. 

The  bacon  was  frizzling  in  the  Dutch  oven  when 
he  went  downstairs,  and  the  whole  place  was  filled 
with  the  rich  smell  of  it.  John  lit  his  pipe  after 
breakfast,  and  strolled  out  to  work,  like  a  gentle- 
man going  for  his  health  after  the  streets  had  been 
well  aired.  He  did  not  know  that  his  mother  went 
to  the  front  window  to  watch  him  pass,  because 
she  was  so  proud  of  him  and  happy  this  morning. 
At  the  works  the  holiday  was  still  in  the  air — no 
serious  work  was  done.  One  of  the  men  asked  John 
if  he  had  fallen  in  love,  he  was  so  merry,  singing 
away  to  himself. 

When  he  went  home  for  dinner  his  mother's  news 
caught  him  like  a  sharp  pain. 

"Have  you  heard  Mrs.  Wheatley  is  dead?" 

"What,  Maggie  Wheatley's  mother?"  he 
exclaimed. 

"Yes;  she  died  last  night.  You  knew  she  had 
had  a  stroke.  It  was  you  told  me,  wasn't  it?" 

"I  saw  Maggie  last  night  at  the  Fair.  I  was  talk- 
ing to  her." 

"Last  night?"  said  Mrs.  Allday,  horrified. 
"Why,  her  mother  died  before  nine  o'clock.  She's 
a  fine  sort  of  daughter,  only  just  home,  and  out  at 
the  Fair  while  her  mother  was  dying." 

John  was  roused. 

"No,  it  won't  do  to  say  that  about  her,  mother. 
She  didn't  know  how  ill  her  mother  was;  she 
couldn't  have  known.  Maggie  isn't  like  that." 

"You  didn't  tell  me  last  night  you'd  seen  her." 

"Didn't  I  ?  I  forgot.  She  was  with  Sam  Bloom 
— well,  we  met  her.' 

John  was  uneasy.    For  a  moment  he  was  attacked 


98  LITTLE  HOUSES 

by  self-reproach.  His  thoughts  had  so  neglected 
Maggie  that  he  had  not  even  remembered  to  tell 
his  mother  that  he  had  met  her.  And  then  came 
awe.  While  he  was  enjoying  himself  at  the  Fair, 
Maggie  had  gone  home  to  find  her  mother  dead. 
He  had  thought  of  death;  he  had  heard  often  of 
people  dying,  but  these  things  had  kept  afar  off. 
Now,  of  a  sudden,  death  had  come  very  close, 
almost  touching  him,  rousing  something  in  him 
which  had  slept.  He  was  disquieted.  All  his  morn- 
ing gaiety  was  gone. 

"Somebody  ought  to  write  the  poor  girl  a  letter 
of  condolence,"  said  Mrs.  Allday,  as  they  were 
finishing  dinner.  "I  don't  feel  equal  to  going  up 
and  seeing  her.  I  knew  her  poor  mother  so 
well." 

"Yes,  there  ought  to  be  one  sent,"  said  Mr.  All- 
day.  "You  might  do  it,  John.  You  were  with 
Maggie  last  night,  and  she'd  think  more  of  it,  per- 
haps, coming  from  you." 

John  shrank  from  the  task. 

"Do  you  think  I  ought  to?" 

"Yes,"  said  his  mother.     "To-night  will  do." 

"All  right,"  said  John,  reluctantly. 

He  dreaded  the  ordeal  of  writing  the  letter,  and 
the  procrastination  gave  him  no  aid.  As  he  went 
to  work  he  told  himself  several  times  that  it  was 
his  duty  to  write.  Memories  troubled  him — the  day 
when  he  had  lost  the  donkey,  and  Maggie  had  found 
Barbara  Kingsnorton's  brooch  at  the  bonfire,  the 
rendezvous  he  hadn't  kept  with  Maggie,  and  meet- 
ings afterwards,  when  they  were  growing  up.  He 
was  sorry  for  Maggie ;  his  imagination  pictured  her 
last  night,  sitting  alone  in  the  house,  in  the  sitting- 
room,  perhaps,  and  the  dead  upstairs,  in  the  silence 
for  ever  and  ever.  His  thoughts  seemed  to  be  in 
his  throat,  and  tingling  below  his  blurred  eyes.  He 
had  to  swallow  hard, 


THE  GLEE  SINGERS  99 

He  was  glad  to  be  at  the  works  again,  busy 
among  the  men.  Gradually  his  sadness  rose  from 
him,  and  he  sang  softly  to  himself,  choosing  senti- 
mental ditties. 

Four  o'clock  came.  The  few  men  left  in  the 
fitting-shop  were  only  hanging  on  till  five,  so  that 
the  sound  of  the  door  banging,  and  the  timekeeper's 
entry,  attracted  every  one's  attention. 

"Allday,  you're  wanted  up  at  th'  'ouse!" 

John  was  astonished. 

"Old  Gentleman  Binns  has  sent  down  for  you. 
They're  awaiting  for  you  in  the  drorin'-room — 
afternoon  tea — introjooce  you  to  the  ladies.  It's 
right,  my  lad." 

The  men  laughed.  John  felt  himself  blushing. 
What  could  he  be  wanted  for  up  at  the  house?  It 
would  be  at  the  office  if  it  was  about  his  work. 
While  he  was  putting  on  his  coat  he  wondered  if 
the  glee  singers  had  anything  to  do  with  the  sudden 
order.  When  he  asked  again,  the  timekeeper 
laughed  and  suggested  an  offer  of  partnership,  or  an 
offer  of  marriage,  and  the  men  added  rough  jokes. 
John  hurried  away  from  them. 

To  his  increasing  astonishment,  a  maid  showed 
him  into  the  drawing-room.  Old  Gentleman  Binns 
was  there,  in  his  easy  chair,  with  Miss  Kingsnorton 
and  her  sister  on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth.  John 
stood  hesitating  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,  Allday,"  said  the  old  gentleman. 
"Miss  Kingsnorton  has  come  to  see  me  about 
you." 

John  blushed,  and  felt  utterly  miserable,  but  he 
did  not  call  it  misery  afterwards.  He  understood 
vaguely  that  Miss  Kingsnorton  had  seen  Mr. 
Bevan,  and  that  now  he  was  accepted  as  a  valuable 
member  of  the  glee  party.  Then  his  pride  stirred. 

"I  called  and  saw  your  mother  this  afternoon," 
she  explained.  "We  were  coming  along,  so  I 


ioo  LITTLE  HOUSES 

thought  I  might  see  you  at  once.  We're  having  a 
rehearsal  to-night  at  home,  and  we  want  the  full 
glee  party.  We're  having  a  town  concert  in  Decem- 
ber, you  know.  My  sister  is  going  to  help.  Mr. 
Benlow  has  written  a  kind  of  toy  opera — I've 
written  it  for  his  music.  We  want  to  give  that — 
and — well,  it'll  be  something  quite  new." 

John  caught  a  glimpse  of  Barbara.  She  was 
smiling,  he  thought,  ever  such  a  little  smile,  and  he 
wondered  if  she  were  thinking  of  the  Fat  Lady. 
Surely  she  recognized  him.  He  was  quite  cool  now, 
in  thought;  only  a  little  fluttering  remained  of  all 
his  agitation. 

He  told  the  men  wrhen  he  went  back  that  Old 
Gentleman  Binns  wanted  him  to  marry  his  eldest 
daughter.  The  men  thought  it  was  an  excellent 
joke. 

His  mother  had  been  up  to  High  Street  and 
had  bought  a  pork  pie  for  his  tea,  she  was  so 
elated. 

"They  were  very  nice,"  she  explained  about  her 
visitors,  "sat  themselves  down  and  chatted — just 
like  their  mother  when  she  was  a  girl,  I  told  them. 
A  lucky  thing  it  wasn't  my  wash  week!  I  don't 
know  what  I  should  have  done." 

She  made  John  describe  twice  over  the  interview 
in  Old  Gentleman  Binnses'  drawing-room. 

"I  don't  believe  she  recognized  me  being  in  the 
show  with  'em  last  night,"  said  John.  "Her  sister 
did,  I  think.  I  fancy  her  eye  twinkled." 

"Yes,  Barbara  did,"  his  mother  assured  him. 
"She  recognized  your  photograph.  I  told  her  as 
you'd  seen  her,  and  she  laughed.  Marion  told  me, 
'You  know,  Mrs.  Allday,  it  was  an  education  to 
me.  I  hadn't  really  thought  as  these  people  were 
human.'  Oh,  she  enjoyed  it.  That's  what  I 
like  about  her — she's  so  nice — nothing  sprung-up 
about  her." 


THE  GLEE  SINGERS  101 

John  was  exultantly  happy.  When  his  father 
reminded  him  that  he  had  to  write  the  letter  of 
condolence  to  Maggie  Wheatley,  he  was  annoyed, 
and  he  put  it  off  until  after  he  had  washed  and 
changed  for  going  to  the  rehearsal.  The  thought 
of  it  disturbed  his  pleasure. 

"I  don't  like  this  job.  You  never  know  what  to 
say,"  he  complained. 

He  spoilt  the  first  sheet  of  paper,  and  his  mother 
warned  him  that  she  hadn't  much  more.  So  he  had 
to  straighten  out  the  spoilt  sheet,  which  he  had 
crushed  into  a  ball,  and  make  a  rough  draft  to  copy 
from. 

"I  should  say  you  wished  to  express  your  sym- 
pathies," said  his  father — "our  sympathies  would  be 
better — in  her  affliction,  and  we  trust,  sincerely  will 
do,  that  she  will  be  strengthened  to  bear  this  dark 
and  mysterious  dispensation  of  Providence.  It's  a 
nice  way  of  putting  it.  I  always  put  that." 

"Yes,  yes — I'd  forgotten  that,"  said  John, 
eagerly. 

His  father  and  mother  read  it  when  it  was  com- 
pleted, and  decided  that  it  would  do  very  nicely. 
When  the  letter  was  sealed  and  stamped,  John  felt 
that  an  unpleasant  load  had  been  taken  off  his 
mind. 

He  posted  the  letter  at  the  Toll,  and  fifty  yards 
beyond  the  pillar  he  had  forgotten  it. 

The  Kingsnortons'  house,  Ridgeway,  stood 
against  the  slope  of  a  knoll  overlooking  the  Bristol 
Road  where  the  road  swung  away  to  Nickling  and 
the  funnel  of  the  Sele  valley.  It  was  very  imposing 
for  its  size,  which  was  not  great.  An  avenue  of 
tall  hollies  led  to  it,  curving  to  make  a  long  ap- 
proach over  a  short  patch  of  ground.  The  house 
itself  was  planned  on  a  sort  of  terrace  before  the 
slope  curled  up  to  the  summit  of  the  hill.  There 
were  flower  and  kitchen  gardens,  and  a  strip  of 


102  LITTLE  HOUSES 

meadow  for  the  two  horses,  and  for  the  Hens  to 
stray  down.  Mr.  Kingsnorton  had  driven  tandem 
when  he  was  younger,  and  had  ridden  to  hounds. 
He  had  once  been  second  in  a  point-to-point  steeple- 
chase— "two  runners,  of  course,"  was  the  local  way 
of  ending  the  statement.  He  was  a  bluff,  hearty, 
whiskered  man,  who  smoked  cigars  after  breakfast 
and  drank  brandy  before  going  to  bed.  "A  gen- 
tleman of  the  old  school,"  said  those  who  liked  him. 
"A  bombastic,  obstinate  old  tory,"  said  those  who 
didn't. 

Mrs.  Kingsnorton  was  a  little  woman  with  a 
pleasing,  ugly  face,  dominated  by  a  large  aquiline 
nose,  the  only  possession  of  all  the  inheritance 
which  her  great-grandfather  had  not  been  able 
to  sell  for  ready  money.  She  was  a  lady,  a  born 
lady,  so  she  didn't  need  to  tell  anybody — her 
eccentricities  were  accomplishments.  She  gave 
generously  to  charities — "not  to  feed  secretaries," 
she  explained  to  friends — to  her  own  charities, 
where  administration  cost  nothing.  The  poor  suf- 
fered her  to  browbeat  them  with  the  greatest  gusto. 
The  hens  were  her  own  pets,  and  she  sold  their 
eggs  at  the  highest  rates  in  the  district  for  cash, 
and  boasted  of  how  she  made  them  pay.  She  was 
interested  in  the  little  mission  church  at  Nick- 
ling,  though  she  didn't  often  go.  She  told  the  vicar 
publicly  that  she  liked  to  keep  her  church-going 
among  her  pleasures,  and  not  let  it  become  a  mere 
habit. 

Barbara  resembled  her  mother.  She  had  the 
famous  nose,  which  now  had  become  more  delicate, 
though  still  pronounced,  and  giving  the  features  an 
expression  of  pride,  almost  of  disdain.  The  eyes 
were  grey,  with  long  lashes;  and  sometimes  when 
she  was  seated  she  seemed  to  have  her  eyes  nearly 
closed,  as  though  she  were  musing,  and  in  this 
mood  her  mouth  drooped  slightly  at  the  corners, 


THE  GLEE  SINGERS  103 

adding  a  greater  coldness  to  her  pride.  When 
she  was  roused  her  eyes  opened  wide,  and  her  lips 
parted.  Her  laughter  was  merry,  mischievous  even. 
Her  hair  was  very  abundant,  brown  and  shining. 
John  Allday  always  thought  her  tall,  although  his 
impression  was  gained  rather  from  the  slim 
gracefulness  of  her  figure  than  from  her  actual 
height.  Her  mother  would  sometimes  explain  to 
confidential  friends  that  Barbara  had  always  been 
delicate,  and  had  been  spoilt.  She  was  eight  years 
younger  than  her  sister  Marian.  "The  more  you 
get,  and  the  more  easily  you  get  it,  in  this  world, 
the  more  difficult  you  are  to  satisfy,  I  think,"  was 
always  her  mother's  explanation  in  her  defence. 
Barbara  was  her  mother's  favourite.  Perhaps  her 
mother,  in  excusing  Barbara,  was  only  excusing  her 
inner  self.  Perhaps  it  was  all  due  to  Barbara's 
having  inherited  the  famous  nose.  To  John  she  was 
the  perfect  embodiment  of  that  sensitive  aristocracy 
upon  which  no  Englishman  can  gaze  without  re- 
spect, or  without  that  scorn  which  is  respect  per- 
verted. John,  of  course,  had  no  experience  to  make 
him  critical.  He  did  not  guess  that  her  high  dis- 
dain went  with  shyness,  as  it  often  does.  Few 
guessed  that.  But  he  knew  and  rejoiced  that  she 
could  laugh  as  merrily  as  he.  To  his  new  fervid 
imagination  the  knowledge  was  like  a  secret  shared 
between  them. 

When  he  arrived  he  was  shown  into  a  room  which 
Miss  Kingsnorton  called  "our  den,"  a  room  wonder- 
fully crowded  with  books,  pictures,  papers,  writing 
things,  far  more  than  John  had  time  to  notice.  She 
told  him  she  had  forgotten  she  had  asked  him  to 
come  half  an  hour  before  the  time  arranged  for  the 
arrival  of  the  glee  party.  "It  doesn't  matter,  you 
know.  You  can  help  us,  perhaps,"  she  said,  and 
her  charm  banished  John's  embarrassment. 

Marian  was  said  to  resemble  her  father,  because 


104  LITTLE  HOUSES 

she  hadn't  her  mother's  nose.  At  a  little  distance, 
in  certain  lights  her  features  had  a  harmonious 
balance  which  attained  to  beauty;  a  close  examina- 
tion showed  them  to  be  rather  coarse.  She  was 
very  good-natured,  and  much  more  popular  than 
Barbara.  Her  mother's  poor  liked  her  to  visit 
them,  because  she  listened  so  well  to  their  inter- 
minable woes.  There,  indeed,  was  the  secret  of  her 
popularity — her  sympathy  seemed  to  be  inex- 
haustible. She  was  always  spoken  of  as  "a  very 
clever  young  lady."  She  had  had  poems  printed 
in  magazines,  she  sketched,  sang  a  little,  played 
the  organ  sometimes  at  the  little  church,  and  was 
famous  in  the  district  as  an  organizer  of  enter- 
tainments. 

She  took  John  into  the  drawing-room.  Barbara 
and  her  mother  and  father  were  there,  and  Willie 
Benlow  with  his  sister  Elsie.  John  had  not  to 
strain  at  making  talk;  all  seemed  ready  to  help 
him. 

"You're  audience  with  me  now,  Mr.  Allday,"  said 
Elsie  Benlow.  "That's  always  my  part.  Oh,  I'm 
a  good  audience.  I  can  keep  awake  through  any- 
thing." 

To  John,  Barbara  was  beautiful — Elsie  Benlow 
was  nice.  He  liked  Elsie  and  enjoyed  talking  to 
her,  even  permitting  himself  the  flattery  that  she 
seemed  to  enjoy  his  talking.  She  had  light  brown 
hair,  rather  wavy.  Her  eyes  were  blue,  and  John 
found  that  she  had  a  way  of  opening  them  wide 
and  smiling,  which  pleased  him  immensely.  She 
was  short,  like  her  mother,  and  plump;  she  would 
probably  grow  very  stout.  When  she  spoke  she 
had  to  look  up  to  John.  He  liked  that,  for  it  had 
been  one  of  his  secret  worries  in  earliest  manhood 
that  he  couldn't  pass  five  and  a  half  feet.  He  did 
not  seek  to  understand  Elsie's  charm ;  she  seemed  to 
have  a  way  of  placing  him  at  his  ease,  and  making 


THE  GLEE  SINGERS  105 

him  feel  some  of  his  own  importance — a  manner 
not  so  fine  as  Barbara  Kingsnorton's  gracious  dig- 
nity, but  exceedingly  pleasant.  He  would  have  laid 
all  his  treasures  devoutly  at  Barbara's  feet;  to  Elsie 
he  would  have  shown  them  so  that  she  might  admire 
them  with  him. 

He  was  sorry  when  the  glee  singers  arrived  and 
the  serious  business  of  the  evening  began. 

Refreshments  were  served  before  they  left. 
John  had  wine.  He  could  have  ale  in  any  tavern, 
or  at  the  works,  where  they  sent  the  boys  out  for 
it  in  stone  jars,  especially  in  the  hot  weather.  Mr. 
Kingsnorton  gave  him  a  cigar,  and  he  lit  it  at  once, 
as  Mr.  Kingsnorton  did  his,  although  it  was  a  for- 
midable torpedo  of  a  cigar,  which  threatened  to 
grow  stronger  and  stronger  as  it  shortened.  The 
other  men  put  theirs  in  their  waistcoat  pockets  to 
keep  for  Sunday,  except  Tom  Bevan.  They  would 
probably  smoke  half,  and  cut  the  rest  up  for  their 
pipes,  as  the  foremen  did  with  the  cigars  Old  Gentle- 
man Binns  gave  them. 

The  men  rose  to  go  at  last.  Tom  Bevan  stayed 
behind  for  several  moments,  talking  to  Miss 
Kingsnorton,  and  John  stayed  with  him,  for  Miss 
Kingsnorton  had  asked  his  advice.  When  they  were 
outside  together  the  others  were  standing  in  a 
little  group  in  the  shadows  of  the  drive.  John  had 
descended  the  steps  after  Tom  Bevan  when  Elsie 
Benlow  called  after  him: 

"Is  Willie  there,  Mr.  Allday?" 

John  turned. 

"I  don't  know.    I  don't  think  so." 

"What  a  nuisance!    I've  hurried  ever  so." 

John  hesitated.  He  did  not  know  whether  to  stay 
with  her  or  join  the  other  men. 

"He  may  be  in  front,"  he  suggested,  and  moved 
towards  the  drive.  "Shall  I  see?" 

"No!"    said   Elsie,    emphatically.      "He   knows 


106  LITTLE  HOUSES 

his  way  home.     We'll  walk  slowly.     He  may  be 
indoors  yet." 

She  came  down  the  steps,  and  walked  at  John's 
side. 

"You  know,  Mr.  Allday,  I'm  a  dreadful  person," 
she  said  gaily.  "I  feel — well,  I  could  enjoy  a 
merry-go-round  at  the  Fair  after  all  this.  My  feet 
have  both  been  asleep,  one  after  the  other." 

They  stopped  by  the  gate.  The  men  saw  that 
John  was  with  Miss  Benlow,  and  went  on.  Willie 
Benlow  came  down  the  drive,  and  the  three  of 
them  walked  down  to  the  Bristol  Road.  John  began 
to  feel  awkward,  but  Elsie  kept  the  conversation 
from  lapsing,  and  saved  him  from  confusion.  When 
he  had  said  "good  night"  at  the  Toll,  he  repeated 
to  himself  several  times  that  she  was  very  nice.  All 
his  worship  was  at  another  shrine. 

His  father  had  gone  to  bed,  and  his  mother  was 
sitting  close  up  to  the  dying  fire. 

"I  thought  you  wouldn't  be  very  late,"  she  said. 
"How  did  you  get  on?" 

"Splendid!  Splendid!  They  were  as  nice  with 
me,  I  might  have  been  one  of  themselves,  almost — 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kingsnorton,  all  of  'em.  Yes,  mother, 
I'm  one  of  the  Selvalley  Glee  Singers — your  son, 
John  Allday." 

He  made  her  a  bow,  as  before  a  concert  audience, 
and  then  danced  a  shuffle  on  the  oilcloth.  His 
mother's  eyes  were  moist  as  she  smiled  proudly  at 
his  gaiety. 

He  talked  all  the  time  he  ate  the  supper  she  had 
kept  for  him.  The  fire  was  nearly  out  when  at  last 
he  went  to  see  that  all  was  safe  for  the  night. 

"Your  father  went  to  bed  early,"  she  told  him. 
"Before  you  came  in  I  was  sitting  thinking  about 
poor  Maggie  Wheatley — her  mother  gone,  poor 
soul,  and  her  in  the  house  alone.  It  isn't  so  bad  in 
the  daytime,  there's  something  to  do  all  the 


THE  GLEE  SINGERS  107 

while,  but  at  night — I  know  when  my  poor  mother 

died " 

She  shook  her  head.  John  felt  something  start 
in  his  interior.  When  he  kissed  his  mother  "good 
night,"  a  ceremony  only  observed  on  great  occasions, 
he  suffered  a  keen  emotion.  Upstairs  in  the  quiet 
of  his  little  bedroom  it  became  an  impression  like 
that  of  fear,  and  he  hurried  to  undress,  as  a  boy  in 
the  dark  will  hurry  to  seek  the  shelter  of  the  bed- 
clothes. And  then  his  disquietude  softened  to  pity. 
For  a  while  his  thoughts  went  out  to  share  Maggie's 
sorrow;  but  as  he  grew  drowsy  they  drifted  back 
to  his  own  evening,  to  Elsie  Benlow  and  Barbara 
Kingsnorton,  and  catching  fragments  of  music  to 
make  him  happy  again,  till  they  sank  quietly  to 
sleep. 


CHAPTER  IV 

CAROLS 

SEVEN — six — five  weeks  to  Christmas — and 
December  in  and  the  days  galloping.  The 
Christmas  numbers  were  stale  already.  Gay 
paper  garlands  and  greenery  began  to  appear  in  the 
shops,  even  in  the  little  shops  where  corned  beef, 
spools  of  cotton,  toy  pistols,  and  Christmas  cards 
with  their  prices  on  them  in  hard  pencil,  all  jostled 
one  another  on  the  end  of  the  counter.  Little  boys 
and  girls  called  up  the  chimney  to  Santa  Claus,  while 
big  brothers  and  sisters  smiled  in  the  superiority  of 
great  wisdom,  but  wanted  presents  from  Santa 
Claus  all  the  same. 

Pedley  Hill  had  observed  the  great  feasts  of  the 
Church  Calendar  with  due  solemnity,  years  ago; 
there  were  books  gathering  dust  in  the  Free  Library 
which  told  of  its  ancient  glories.  Progressive  coun- 
cillors never  forgot  to  speak  proudly  of  the  beauties 
of  the  old  town  when  they  proposed  to  modernize 
them  out  of  recognition.  Old  customs  were  going 
fast.  There  were  no  mummers  now  at  Christmas 
to  play  Saint  George  and  the  Dragon  in  the  inn 
parlours  and  in  the  kitchens  of  the  great  houses. 
Sam  Bloom's  grandfather  had  been  a  notable  Saint 
George  in  his  youth,  and  there  were  much  younger 
men  who  remembered  the  playing.  The  brass  band 
had  taken  the  mummers'  place.  It  was  called  a  prize 
band  because  it  deserved  prizes,  although  it  had 

108 


CAROLS  109 

not  actually  won  any.  Everybody  smiled  at  the 
joke,  because  everybody  made  it,  and  so  had  a 
parental  interest  in  it.  Twice  a  week,  in  the  even- 
ings, the  band  practised  in  the  club-room  of  a  tavern 
near  Binnses.  On  Monday  the  groups  of  critical 
listeners  would  assemble  in  the  tavern;  on  Thurs- 
days the  money  was  scarce,  and  they  stood  outside 
if  the  weather  was  fine.  They  were  much  more 
critical  on  Thursday  evenings. 

Steelyards  were  carried  up  back  entries;  men  in 
blue  striped  aprons  came;  squealings  and  snortings 
tore  the  air;  neighbours  gathered  in  little  groups 
to  talk  about  spare  rib,  and  loin,  and  other  tasty 
parts  to  be  enjoyed  by  the  elect.  Huge  pigs  hung 
in  the  butchers'  shops,  bearing  prize  cards  won  at 
the  local  shows.  Everybody  paused  a  while,  with 
mouth  watering,  before  the  mountainous  pork  pies 
and  festoons  of  sausages.  At  home  there  was 
mincemeat  to  be  chopped,  puddings  to  boil,  floors 
to  scrub,  clean  curtains  to  go  up;  and  the  thud, 
thud,  of  the  dollies  in  the  washtubs  resounded 
across  all  the  back  gardens.  On  Monday  mornings 
the  rent  man  had  to  dodge  under  the  clothes  hung 
across  the  yard  and  seek  mother  in  the  steam  of 
the  "brew-house,"  which  wai  only  the  wash-house 
now,  for  nobody  had  brewed  in  it  these  many  years. 
Ladies  brought  the  Church  Almanack,  nearly  a 
square  yard  of  it,  to  the  front  door,  and  refused 
to  go  away  without  the  penny.  Folk  grumbled  at 
the  ruinous  cost  of  Christmas  boxes,  and  wondered 
what  they  might  count  on  getting,  and  everybody 
was  genial  and  full  of  good  wishes,  but  not  per- 
fectly satisfied. 

Nobody  missed  the  market  in  the  Bullen  on 
Christmas  Eve.  It  had  to  be  held  a  day  early 
this  year,  because  Christmas  Day  fell  on  a  Monday, 
the  most  awkward  day  of  the  week  for  housewives, 
and  the  best  for  shopkeepers.  The  market  was  at 


no  LITTLE  HOUSES 

its  busiest  in  the  afternoon,  although  in  the  evening 
the  crowd  was  greater,  when  people  came  to  meet 
acquaintances  and  gossip,  and  the  poorest  and  mean- 
est came  to  haggle  over  the  bargains  left.  The 
Bullen  became  a  town  in  itself  for  the  day,  like  a 
sort  of  canvas  gipsy  town,  with  narrow  lanes  and 
alleys,  filled  with  noise,  the  cries  of  the  stall-keepers^ 
the  clucking  of  fowls  in  baskets,  screeches,  barks, 
the  blare  of  children's  penny  trumpets,  the  clatter 
of  crockery,  and  the  murmur  of  the  talk  running 
through  it  all,  never-ending,  like  the  babbling  of  a 
brook  in  a  stony  channel. 

John  Allday  and  his  father  always  helped  in  the 
housework  for  Christmas — it  was  to  bring  good- 
luck.  Holly  had  to  be  put  over  the  pictures  when 
all  the  rest  was  done,  and  mistletoe  in  a  bunch  where 
Mr.  Allway  could  catch  his  wife  underneath  and 
kiss  her,  with  laughter  and  blushing,  and  the 
solemnest  of  gaiety.  John  had  once  thought  it  was 
rather  foolish  to  keep  up  such  a  ceremony — his 
mother  and  father  were  so  old  for  that.  He  knew 
better  now.  This  year  he  enjoyed  it  thoroughly, 
and  his  mother  was  doubly  happy.  When  his 
glance  rested  on  the  bunch  of  mistletoe,  and  there 
was  no  one  by  to  see  his  smile,  it  wasn't  his  mother 
he  caught  underneath. 

They  had  only  one  anxiety  this  year.  Old  Mr. 
Peckle,  their  grocer  ever  since  John  could  remem- 
ber, had  retired,  and  his  son,  a  weedy,  mean  sort 
of  man,  had  not  sent  the  usual  Christmas  box.  They 
counted  on  a  fruit  cake  or  a  bottle  of  wine.  Mrs. 
Allday  had  to  go  to  the  shop  and  ask  right  out 
for  it  Fortunately,  Old  Peckle  was  there  himself, 
and  the  Christmas  box  was  better  port  than  ever. 
"But  it  isn't  the  same  when  you  have  got  to  go  and 
ask  for  it,"  said  Mrs.  Allday.  Mr.  Peckle  had  been 
a  model  grocer.  Every  Thursday  afternoon  he 
had  driven  round,  and  sat  down  like  an  old  friend. 


CAROLS  in 

his  top-hat  on  the  floor  with  a  red  silk  handker- 
chief in  it,  his  head  as  bald  as  a  ham,  and  his 
sandy  beard  sticking  out  all  bristly.  When  he  re- 
ceipted the  bill  he  licked  it  solemnly,  and  his  pencil 
made  rich,  purple  marks.  "One  of  the  real 
old  school — they're  all  going,  one  by  one,"  said 
John's  father,  sadly.  John  could  not  share  his 
father's  regrets;  his  own  thoughts  were  pressing 
eagerly  to  the  future ;  but  in  the  present  they  under- 
stood each  other  well.  Mrs.  Allday  was  proud 
to  see  them  on  summer  holidays,  walking  out  like 
friends  together.  "It's  nice  in  these  days,"  she 
told  them  both;  and  she  thought  of  other  fathers 
and  other  sons,  bitterly  misunderstanding  one 
another. 

Men  had  been  thinning  the  plantations  above 
Nickling,  and  John  had  got  a  young  spruce  for  a 
Christmas  tree  at  the  Church  Sunday  School.  He 
knew  the  men  well;  he  was  often  out  there  alone. 
His  name  would  be  duly  announced  in  the  parish 
magazine  as  the  giver  of  the  Christmas  tree.  The 
idea  was  his  mother's ;  she  gave  some  greenery,  and 
was  invited  to  help  in  decorating,  along  with  Mrs. 
Kingsnorton  and  her  daughters.  "It's  a  fine  thing 
to  have  a  son  you're  proud  of,"  said  Mrs.  Kings- 
norton, and  Mrs.  Allday  put  the  saying  among  her 
treasured  memories.  The  concert  had  been  a  great 
success;  the  glee  party's  season  was  at  its  busiest. 
John  knew  many  more  people,  the  best  people, 
when  he  strolled  in  the  town,  and  he  had  had  to 
spend  more  money  on  clothes  to  deck  his  new 
importance. 

"You'll  let  me  touch  my  hat  to  you  when  you're 
Lord  Mayor,  won't  you?"  Sam  Bloom  had  said. 

John  accepted  it  as  a  joke.  Mr.  Allday  said 
nothing  when  he  heard ;  he  waited  till  he  was  alone 
with  Mrs.  Allday. 

"I'm  very  sorry,  Sam  Bloom's  jealous  of  John — 


H2  LITTLE  HOUSES 

he's  getting  on,  you  see.  Sam's  got  no  need  to  be 
jealous;  he  ought  to  have  a  greater  character — 
he  /KW  a  greater  character,  only  somehow  he  don't 
seem  to  use  it  right.  He  might  have  been 
something  out  of  th'  ordinary — he  might.  I'm 
very  sorry." 

"He  doesn't  come  here  so  much  as  he  did,  any- 
where near,"  said  Mrs.  Allday. 

"No.    I'm  very  sorry.    I  like  Sam." 

The  Saturday  before  Christmas  was  a  bright, 
mild  day.  John  came  home  at  dinner-time,  and  in 
the  afternoon  he  went  with  his  father  for  a  stroll 
as  far  as  the  market.  Mr.  Allday  had  been  fortu- 
nate— he  was  not  yet  laid  up  for  the  winter.  That 
would  come  probably  with  the  first  wild  days  of  the 
New  Year,  and  then  it  would  be  April  before  he 
was  out  of  doors  again. 

They  met  a  man  who  had  been  in  the  rolling  mill 
at  Selbridge  with  Mr.  Allday  when  they  were  young 
men,  and  the  three  went  into  the  "George  and 
Dragon"  together.  John  did  not  often  go  in  the 
"George."  It  had  been  a  famous  hostelry,  half  a 
century  and  more  ago,  but  it  was  sadly  decayed  now. 
A  great  singing  and  stamping  of  feet  came  through 
to  the  smoke-room. 

"It's  young  Mr.  Bloom,"  explained  the  barmaid, 
smiling.  "He's  always  up  to  some  fun.  They've 
got  a  sing-song  in  the  back." 

The  noise  grew  to  an  uproar. 

"There's  a  fine  lad  throwing  himself  away — abso- 
lutely throwing  himself  away,"  said  Mr.  Allday  to 
his  old  friend. 

The  other  remembered  a  similar  young  man,  and 
they  fell  to  reminiscences. 

As  they  were  going  home  they  met  Sam's  grand- 
father in  the  High  Street. 

"You  haven't  seen  Sam,  I  suppose,  have  you?" 


CAROLS  113 

he  asked.  "He  hasn't  been  back  from  work 
yet." 

"We  haven't  exactly  seen  him.  We've  heard 
him,"  said  Mr.  Allday. 

"Drunk?" 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  say  that,  Mr.  Peacock.  He 
was  enjoying  himself  in  the  'George.'  We're  only 
young  once,  you  know." 

"Ah,  that's  true.  We're  old  a  good  while,  though, 
some  of  us." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"He's  a  fine  lad,  Mr.  Peacock.  Don't  make  any 
mistake  Got  his  faults,  I  dare  say " 

"I've  got  mine,  he  says,"  interrupted  the  old  man. 
"When  you  get  old  they  tell  you  you  can't  under- 
stand. They're  sorry  for  you  because  you  can't 
understand.  And  then,  when  you're  gone,  it's  too 
late  then,  it's  their  turn  to  be  told." 

"Never  you  mind,  Mr.  Peacock,"  said  Mr.  All- 
day,  cheerfully,  tapping  him  on  the  chest.  "Here's 
another  Christmas  in,  and  we'll  wish  you  a  happy 
one." 

"A  happy  one  to  yourselves,  Mr.  Allday." 

He  shook  his  head  again  as  he  turned  away,  and 
they  heard  him  say,  "I'm  thinking  it's  too  many 
Christmases  I've  seen." 

"Poor  old  fellow!"  said  John's  father.  "He  was 
a  wild,  harum-scarum  young  chap  at  one  time,  I 
believe." 

"I  should  never  imagine  it,"  said  John. 

His  father  chuckled  quietly.  John  wondered 
what  he  might  be  thinking  of,  but  he  didn't  ask;  his 
thoughts  were  busily  speeding  on  a  happy  mission 
of  their  own. 

Sunday  was  a  slow,  quiet  day.  "It's  Christmas, 
and  it  isn't,"  said  Mrs.  Allday.  "It  bothers  you  so 
to  provide,  with  the  shops  shut  three  days."  John 
and  his  father  declared  at  once  that  she  managed 


ii4  LITTLE  HOUSES 

always  wonderfully.  Then  she  said,  "I  do  my  best," 
and  looked  modest.  That  was  her  role.  They  acted 
this  kind  of  tiny  interlude  over  and  over  at  every 
holiday,  and  it  was  so  enjoyable  it  never  grew 
stale. 

They  had  a  log  on  the  sitting-room  fire  on  Christ- 
mas Eve — it  was  the  custom.  This  year  it  was  put 
on  early,  when  they  sat  down  to  tea;  John  had  to 
go  out  this  evening.  After  tea  they  sat  round 
the  hearth  and  talked  about  the  Christmases  years 
ago,  when  John  was  a  baby,  when  he  was  first  walk- 
ing and  talking  baby-talk.  They  never  had  any 
difficulty  in  finding  their  own  quiet  happiness  at 
times  like  these.  John  enjoyed  listening,  but  after 
a  while  he  began  to  fidget,  stirred  by  an  inner 
eagerness. 

The  glee  party  met  at  the  "Toll  Inn"  at  nine 
o'clock.  John  was  there  first.  They  set  out  together 
to  Ridgeway,  up  the  drive,  and  on  the  lawn  before 
the  lighted  window ;  then  they  sang  the  carol,  "Good 
King  Wenceslas."  Mr.  Kingsnorton  himself  came 
to  invite  them  indoors.  There  they  sang  again,  and 
enjoyed  hot  punch,  and  mince  pies,  and  cigars. 
John  heard  Tom  Bevan  say  to  Barbara,  "It  was  Mr. 
Allday's  idea  to  surprise  you.  He  said  you  would 
like  it  better."  After  Barbara  had  shaken  hands 
with  him,  and  he  \vas  on  his  way  towards  the  town, 
he  still  seemed  to  hear  her  voice  wishing  him  a 
merry  Christmas. 

They  went  to  Benlows'  next,  and  had  a  noble  wel- 
come, with  more  hot  punch  and  mince  pies,  and 
more  cigars.  Then  they  went  to  sing  for  Old  Gen- 
tleman Binns.  Their  calls  were  few,  and  very 
select,  and  they  accepted  no  money — John  had  in- 
sisted on  that,  and  won  over  strong  opposition. 
They  would  not  be  out  to-morrow.  The  glee  party 
was  much  too  big  to  compete  with  common  carol 
singers. 


CAROLS  115 

The  parish  church  bellringers  had  stopped,  and 
it  was  Christmas  Day  when  John  made  his  way 
home.  The  streets  were  empty,  hollow  to  his  foot- 
steps. His  head  buzzed,  and  his  legs  gaily  swung 
of  their  own  accord,  independent  of  him.  He  sang 
to  himself,  unsteadily. 

"A  merry  Christmas,  mother!"  he  called 
upstairs. 

He  had  heard  her  moving.  In  a  moment  she 
came  down,  with  a  flowered  Paisley  shawl  about  her 
shoulders. 

"I  hope  you  haven't  had  too  much  to  drink," 
she  said,  when  he  had  kissed  her. 

"No,  no — oh,  no!"  he  assured  her,  and  he 
frowned  to  show  her  how  serious  he  could  be. 

She  laughed. 

"Plenty,  all  the  same,  I  can  see." 

He  lit  his  candle,  and  went  upstairs  to  see  his 
father.  The  old  man  was  sitting  in  bed  blinking,  his 
nightcap  pushed  back,  and  his  knees  drawn  up. 

"Ah,  lad!  It's  well  to  be  young!"  he  said. 
"Hold  your  candle  straight.  It's  dripping  on  the 
carpet." 

John  laughed  merrily.  His  father  joined  him, 
for  he  had  been  young,  and  his  memory  was  good. 
They  both  shouted  together  when  Mrs.  Allday 
came  up: 

"Merry  Christmas,  mother!" 


John  awoke  early  in  th»  morning.  His  head 
ached,  and  his  mouth  was  parched,  but  he  had  not 
drunk  enough  to  put  him  into  a  bad  humour.  He 
had  stayed  late  in  bed  on  Sunday  morning,  and  now 
he  was  not  sleepy.  So  he  rose  and  dressed,  cut  a 
piece  off  the  pork  pie  at  the  cellar  head,  put  it  in  a 
paper  bag,  with  a  chunk  of  bread,  took  a  long  drink 
at  the  tap,  and  went  out. 


n6  LITTLE  HOUSES 

It  was  a  bright  morning,  and  very  quiet.  A  milk 
cart  was  driving  in  from  the  country.  From  along 
the  High  Street  came  the  thin  sound  of  boys  carol- 
singing  early.  The  sky  was  pale  grey,  with  little 
bands  of  clouds,  tinted  rosy  as  the  sun  came  up.  A 
chill  wind  rustled  the  laurels.  John  strode  lustily, 
walking  along  the  ridge  which  looked  across  the 
valley.  It  was  a  dull  winter  countryside,  with  no 
other  bright  relief  than  the  white  dots  of  distant 
farms.  The  summer's  green  lingered,  no  more  than 
a  suggestion  now,  among  the  brown  withered 
grasses,  the  buffs  and  reds  of  the  distant  hills  under 
the  first  pale  sunlight,  with  the  black  woods  in  their 
folds.  John  saw  the  beauties  of  the  fresh  dawn, 
for  he  saw  them  through  his  own  cheerfulness. 

The  pork  pie  was  gone,  and  the  bag  blown  up  and 
burst,  when  he  met  Sam  Bloom  and  another  man 
with  guns. 

"You're  up  too  early  for  an  honest  man,"  said 
Sam. 

John  laughed,  and  they  exchanged  seasonable 
wishes.  When  they  had  parted,  Sam  shouted  after 
him: 

"Are  you  coming  to  the  'George'  concert 
to-night?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  so,"  said  John. 

"It'll  be  special.    You  ought  to  come." 

"I'll  see." 

He  smiled  complacently  to  himself.  At  home  he 
told  his  mother,  "Poor  old  Sam  must  have  thought 
me  hard  up  for  a  bit  of  amusement." 

"I'm  sorry  for  Sam,  and  for  anybody  with  no 
proper  home  to  enjoy  Christmas  in,"  she  said. 

John  wasn't  sorry  for  anybody. 

He  went  to  morning  service  at  Nickling — "to  see 
our  decorations,"  he  told  his  mother.  There  he  met 
Barbara  Kingsnorton  and  her  sister  in  the  church- 
yard, and  they  wished  him  "A  merry  Christmas" 


CAROLS  117 

over  again.  He  sat  behind  them  in  church,  where 
he  could  see  Barbara.  In  the  hymns  he  listened  for 
her  voice. 

Mr.  Benlow  and  Elsie,  driving  in  the  dogcart, 
overtook  him  as  he  was  walking  home.  Elsie  called 
out,  "A  merry  Christmas,  Mr.  Allday!"  and  her 
father  invited  him  to  jump  up. 

"Yes,  I  drove  home  in.state,"  he  told  his  mother 
and  father,  with  exaggerated  dignity.  "And  that 
isn't  all  either.  I'm  invited  out  for  this  evening." 

"To  Mr.  Benlow's?"  exclaimed  his  mother. 
"My  word!  You  are  doing  your  Christmas 
proper !" 

It  was  the  best  Christmas  dinner  they  had  ever 
had,  they  were  all  agreed.  Mrs.  Allday  went  to  bed 
in  the  afternoon  to  "drop  off  for  half  an  hour." 
Mr.  Allday  dozed  in  the  easy  chair  before  the  fire. 
John  had  a  library  book,  but  he  had  no  wish  to 
read;  he  sat  looking  at  the  coals,  and  his  thoughts 
straggled  capriciously,  like  starlings  on  a  sunny 
lawn.  When  his  mother  came  downstairs  at  last, 
thirsty  for  a  cup  of  tea,  she  found  both  of  them 
asleep,  and  the  fire  sunk  low  with  only  a  tiny  inter- 
mittent tongue  of  flame. 

"You're  a  nice  pair  of  old  fogeys,  snoozing  your 
Christmas  away !"  she  told  them. 

They  made  a  great  joke  of  it  while  they  helped 
to  set  the  tea. 

"I  expect  there's  plenty  o'  folk  would  be  glad  to 
sleep  their  Christmas  away — folk  with  no  homes  to 
enjoy  it  in,"  she  said. 

"Plenty,"  said  Mr.  Allday.  "It's  Christmas 
makes  the  old  bachelors  wonder  if  they've  done  the 
right  thing.  An  old  bachelor  on  Christmas  Day  is 
like  a  tough  old  goose — a  disappointment  all  round. 
You  can't  make  everybody  happy." 

"That  don't  say  you  shouldn't  try  a  bit,"  she 
told  him. 


LITTLE  HOUSES 

Her  sympathies  were  moved. 

"John!"  she  said  suddenly.  "Did  you  send 
Maggie  Wheatley  the  Christmas  card  you  were 
going  to?" 

She  saw  at  once  that  he  had  not  sent  it. 

"No — I  forgot,"  he  said  reluctantly. 

"You  said  you'd  get  one  on  Saturday  afternoon, 
when  you  were  out,  and  post  it." 

"I  forgot,"  said  John.  He  had  no  mind  to  seek 
excuses. 

"It  can't  be  helped,"  said  his  father,  coming  to 
help  him. 

"It's  a  pity,"  said  his  mother,  thinking  only 
of  Maggie.  "She'll  be  so  lonely.  It's  just  the 
thought  of  the  thing.  I  know  how  I  should 
feel." 

"I  don't  know  what  made  me  forget.  I  meant 
to — I — I  forgot." 

John  struggled  to  finish  his  explanation  with  a 
gesture. 

"I  should  have  called  myself,  if  I'd  known  you 
were  going  to  forget,"  said  his  mother. 

"It  can't  be  helped,  mother — send  one  at  the  New 
Year,"  said  Mr.  Allday. 

He  saw  that  John  was  already  suffering,  and  he 
talked  rapidly  to  leave  the  incident  behind.  Mrs. 
Allday  soon  forgot  it,  but  John  had  very  little  to 
say  throughout  the  meal.  They  did  not  know 
how  much  he  had  to  reproach  himself.  A  few 
days  ago  he  had  met  Maggie  in  Selbridge,  and  he 
had  said  to  her,  "I  shall  be  coming  to  wish  you  a 
merry  Christmas."  He  had  not  been  to  see  her. 
"That  doesn't  matter,"  he  had  told  himself  on  Sat- 
urday. "A  card  will  do.  It's  the  good  wishes." 
He  would  explain  later,  if  necessary,  that  he  had 
been  very  busy — it  was  true,  he  had  been  very 
busy;  it  needed  the  repetition  to  convince  him. 
Now  he  had  forgotten  even  the  Christmas  card — 


CAROLS  119 

he  had  no  excuse  for  that.  He  accused  him^if 
bitterly,  explaining  that  he  liked  Maggie,  and  that 
he  had  wanted  to  send  the  card.  All  his  explana- 
tion failed.  She  would  be  expecting  a  card  at  least. 
He  was  lacking  even  in  common  courtesy.  For  a 
while  he  detested  himself,  and  atoned  in  some 
measure  by  resolving  to  go  straight  to  Maggie's 
before  he  went  to  Benlow's  for  the  evening.  It 
was  the  least  he  could  do. 

His  mother  unconsciously  added  to  his  suffering 
while  they  sat  at  tea. 

"I  can't  understand  why  Maggie  Wheatley 
should  have  stayed,  keeping  her  mother's  house 
on.  She  was  doing  so  well  in  service,  by  all 
accounts." 

"She's  doing  well  in  Selbridge — a  good  situation, 
in  that  what-do-they-call-it  Emporium — it's  a  big 
place,"  said  Mr.  Allday. 

"I  dare  say.    All  the  same " 

She  left  her  sentence  unfinished,  as  though  some 
new  thought  had  interrupted  her. 

"Some  attraction  hereabouts?"  suggested  her 
husband. 

"Is  there?"  she  said  absently. 

"I  don't  know." 

He  looked  at  John,  and  she  looked,  but  John 
said  nothing;  he  was  relighting  his  pipe.  *  He  had 
gone  out  when  they  returned  to  the  matter. 

"Oh,  I  reckon  John  knows  something  about  it," 
said  Mr.  Allday.  "There's  a  something.  I  wouldn't 
say,  I'm  sure." 

"I  did  think "  began  Mrs.  Allday,  and 

ceased. 

Her  husband  shook  his  head  sagely,  and  she 
sighed,  a  though  she  were  contented.  Neither  ex- 
plained, and  they  sat  silent  a  long  while.  When 
they  spoke  again  it  was  upon  another  topic. 

They   had    their    supper   early;   the   cloth   only 


120  LITTLE  HOUSES 

half  way  across  the  table.  They  did  not  sit  long 
afterwards. 

"It's  quiet  without  John,"  said  his  mother. 

"It's  very  comforting,  though,  to  think  of  him 
getting  on,"  said  his  father. 

They  said  it  several  times,  and  then  they  went 
to  bed.  John  had  a  latchkey. 

"It's  been  a  nice  Christmas,  Susan,"  said  Mr. 
Allday  gently,  when  she  had  come  to  bed  and  blown 
the  candle  out. 

"Yes,  Thomas — very  nice." 

He  kissed  her  solemnly. 

In  a  few  minutes  their  breathing  rose  and  fell  in 
sleep,  the  one  wheezing  and  broken,  the  other  sigh- 
ing rhythmically. 


John  left  the  house  early,  hurried  along  the  High 
Street,  across  the  Bullen,  and  up  the  hill.  "I 
shall  just  have  time,  without  stopping  a  minute," 
he  explained  to  himself.  He  had  started  from  home 
with  a  feeling  of  shame  at  having  neglected  a  duty, 
and  with  high  resolution  to  atone  for  it;  but  his 
hurrying  made  him  uncomfortable,  and  there  was 
a  light  rain  falling.  Before  he  reached  the  parish 
church  he  was  angry  that  he  had  had  to  come, 
especially  against  his  own  carelessness  in  forgetting 
to  send  the  card — it  would  have  been  so  much 
easier  than  having  to  tramp  all  up  here. 

There  was  no  light  in  the  front  window  at 
Maggie's.  He  had  not  expected  any  in  the  front 
room.  He  knocked.  Nothing  stirred  within.  He 
knocked  again,  and  listened,  and  looked  in  at  the 
front  window,  and  knocked  again.  The  house  was 
dark — Maggie  was  not  in.  John  swore.  It  was 
a  nuisance.  He  wondered  for  an  instant  if  he 
should  go  round  to  the  back,  and  decided  that  she 


CAROLS  121 

would  surely  have  heard  if  she  were  in.  He  might 
perhaps  push  a  card  under  the  door,  or  a  slip  of 
paper  to  tell  her  he  had  called.  When  he  began 
to  feel  in  his  pockets  he.  recollected  that  he  was 
wearing  his  best  clothes,  and  he  had  no  card,  no 
pencil,  no  scrap  of  paper,  even.  "Waste  o'  time!" 
he  whispered  savagely.  There  was  a  bright  light 
next  door — they  were  having  a  party,  perhaps.  It 
was  of  no  use  disturbing  them  with  a  message  for 
Maggie. 

He  turned  away,  and  walked  slowly  down  the 
hill.  His  mood  was  softened;  he  was  sorry  that 
Maggie  was  not  in,  since  he  had  come  up  specially ; 
he  would  have  to  call  again  and  tell  her.  It  would 
be  nice  to  show  her  that  he  had  not  actually  broken 
his  word.  The  clock  of  the  parish  church  chimed 
half  past  seven,  and  he  began  to  hurry,  pushed  by 
a  new  eagerness  of  his  thoughts.  Benlows  were 
expecting  him.  As  he  crossed  the  Bullen  he  saw 
the  bright  lights  of  the  "Bull,"  and  of  the  "George 
and  Dragon,"  and  he  recollected  Sam  Bloom's  invi- 
tation to  the  concert.  Poor  old  Sam  had  nothing 
better  to  go  to.  John  smiled.  He  turned  in  at  the 
covered  entry  which  led  to  Mr.  Benlow's,  and  stood, 
with  a  little  fluttering  in  his  interior,  as  he  made 
the  bell  jangle  on  the  floor  above, 


On  Boxing  Day  morning  his  mother  had  to  wake 
him. 

"Breakfast-time?"  she  exclaimed,  in  answer  to 
his  sleepy  question.  "It'll  be  dinner-time  if  you 
aren't  quick.  You  haven't  half  had  something  to 
make  you  sleep." 

She  wanted  to  know  all  about  his  evening  when 
he  came  downstairs. 

"There's  a  Mr.  Hurst  staying  there  from  London, 


122  LITTLE  HOUSES 

a  friend  of  Willie's,"  explained  John;  "a  big  nob, 
I  suppose  he  is,  in  his  way — a  gentleman,  right 
enough,  and  clever  enough " 

"But  you  didn't  like  him,"  divined  his  mother. 

"Well,  I  can't  say  as  I  did." 

"Wasn't  there  anybody  else?  You've  only  been 
talking  about  what  you  had  to  eat  and  drink." 

"Only  those  I've  told  you.  Barbara  Kingsnorton 
came,  and  stayed  about  an  hour.  Willie  and  this 
Mr.  Hurst  went  to  see  her  home — took  a  good  while 
about  it,  too.  This  Mr.  Hurst  knew  her  in  London, 
so  Elsie  told  me." 

"Was  her  sister  with  her?"  said  Mrs.  Allday. 
"I'm  inclined  to  think  Mr.  Benlow  would  like 
his  son  to  have  Barbara  Kingsnorton.  I've 
heard " 

"He  never  will!"  said  John  emphatically.  "She 
doesn't  like  him  well  enough." 

"Oh !  She  only  came  for  an  hour,  you  say.  What 
was  it  then " 

Mr.  Allday  interrupted  her. 

"Woman!  Woman!   Curiosity!" 

He  shook  his  head,  and  then  laughed  at  her  when 
she  blushed. 


CHRISTMAS   DAY 

MAGGIE  WHEATLEY  was  tired  long  before 
evening  came.  She  had  been  on  her  feet 
since  before  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
and  had  been  busy  all  the  time,  serving  the  Christ- 
mas Eve  shoppers.  The  Saturday  was  more  like 
Christmas  Eve  than  the  Sunday  would  be.  The 
intervals  for  dinner  and  tea  had  been  curtailed 
to-day,  business  was  so  heavy.  She  was  in  charge 
of  the  tobacco  and  fancy  goods  department  in  the 
Royal  Emporium,  the  biggest  and  most  popular 
linen  drapery  and  general  store  in  Selbridge. 
The  air  was  hot  and  stuffy,  the  ventilation  was 
always  bad,  and  the  store  had  been  filled  all  day 
with  shoppers.  Children  swarmed  everywhere, 
dragging  at  their  mothers'  skirts  and  getting 
in  everybody's  way.  It  was  one  of  their 
annual  treats  to  be  taken  to  the  Magic  Cave,  in 
the  Royal  Emporium  cellars,  where  Father 
Christmas  reigned  in  state,  with  dolls  as  courtiers, 
and  toys  of  every  sort  as  riches,  to  be  exchanged 
for  cash.  It  was  wonderful  for  the  children, 
and  excellent  for  the  shareholders  in  the  Royal 
Emporium,  Limited,  but  for  the  shop  girls,  their 
feet  sore  and  swollen,  Christmas  had  brought  no 
fun  yet. 

Maggie  was  very  busy.     Most  of  her  customers 
were  of  her  own  sex,   buying  presents  for  their 

123 


124  LITTLE  HOUSES 

menfolk,  and  they  were  very  difficult  to  satisfy. 
She  was  an  expert  saleswoman,  however,  and  the 
foreman  smiled  approvingly  on  her  from  time 
to  time.  He  told  her  it  was  splendid  how  she  kept 
so  fresh.  "It's  Christmas  in  the  air,"  she  explained. 
At  every  few  moments  she  glanced  under  the 
counter  at  a  little  box  of  cigars  tied  with  red  silk 
ribbon.  Other  boxes,  similar  to  this,  stood  on  a 
shelf  at  the  back,  but  with  no  ribbon  in  them. 
Occasionally  she  glanced  eagerly  along  the  slow- 
moving  stream  of  shoppers,  and  her  glance  became 
more  eager  and  agitated  as  the  night  drew  on. 

John  Allday  had  stood  at  her  counter  here,  a  few 
days  ago,  and  he  had  told  her,  "I  shall  be  coming 
to  wish  you  a  merry  Christmas."  She  remembered 
the  words  exactly,  and  the  tone  of  his  voice. 
He  would  be  coming  to-day,  she  knew,  very  soon, 
or  it  would  be  too  late,  and  he  had  said  he 
was  coming.  The  little  box  of  cigars  was  her  Christ- 
mas card.  She  wanted  to  wrap  it  up  quickly  when 
he  came,  and  slip  it  in  his  hand  with  his  own 
parcel,  in  his  pocket,  perhaps,  and  watch  his  sur- 
prise and  his  pleasure — he  would  blush,  maybe — he 
did  sometimes.  She  would,  she  was  sure.  She  had 
rehearsed  the  little  scene  a  score  of  times,  and  now 
her  eagerness  was  growing  fast,  tightening  about 
her  thoughts. 

The  crowd  became  more  dense,  pushing  anxiously 
as  the  time  came  near  for  closing.  Maggie's  smile 
vanished;  weariness  crushed  her  at  last,  and  she 
worked  mechanically.  She  looked  about  yet  from 
time  to  time,  though  not  with  hope — he  had  for- 
gotten. An  accident  might  have  prevented  him — 
it  was  possible.  Hope  gave  a  tiny  flutter.  No — he 
had  forgotten. 

"Very  tired?"  asked  the  foreman  kindly,  as  the 
Crowd  began  to  drift  out. 

"Knocked  up!"  said  Maggie. 


CHRISTMAS  DAY  125 

When  she  was  ready  to  go  she  hesitated  for  an 
instant.  The  cigars  were  of  no  use  to  her.  Should 
she  leave  them?  Then  while  she  stood,  a  sudden 
joy  sent  the  blood  surging  up  to  her  face.  It  might 
be  to  see  her  at  home  that  he  was  coming.  It 
wasn't  Christmas  Eve  till  to-morrow,  and  Christ- 
mas the  next  day.  She  wrapped  up  the  cigars 
quickly,  and  hurried  out  to  catch  one  of  the  open 
wagonettes  that  plied  between  Selbridge  and  Pedley 
Hill  on  Saturday  nights.  There  was  no  train  con- 
venient at  this  hour.  The  cold  air  was  bracing  after 
the  stuffy  shop,  and  she  was  happy.  Of  course  John 
Allday  would  be  calling  to-morrow,  or  on  Christ- 
mas morning.  "I  should  have  been  stupid  to  leave 
the  cigars  behind,"  she  told  herself.  She  went  right 
into  the  Bullen  in  the  wagonette,  for  she  did  not 
feel  tired  now,  only  hungry.  The  bustle  in  the 
market  amused  her,  and  she  lingered  over  her  shop- 
ing — a  few  luxuries  for  the  week-end,  and  a  spray 
of  mistletoe,  because  it  was  Christmas.  She  car- 
ried the  spray  carefully  so  that  the  berries  should 
not  drop,  and  she  smiled  to  herself  all  the  way  up 
the  hill  as  she  went  home. 

Mrs.  Onions  had  a  fire  made  for  her  in  the  sitting- 
room,  and  the  kettle  boiling  on  the  hob.  Maggie 
made  tea,  and  ate  a  piece  of  pork  pie  off  the  paper 
to  save  washing  up.  John  would  not  come  to-night, 
of  course.  It  might  not  even  be  to-morrow, 
Christmas  Day  would  be  the  nicest,  in  the  morning, 
though  it  was  a  long  time  away.  She  put  the 
cigars  on  the  mantelpiece  ready  to  her  hand.  The 
mistletoe  was  best  on  the  gas,  in  the  middle  of  the 
room;  close  against  the  table,  she  could  stand 
under  it. 

She  hummed  a  carol  as  she  undressed  for  bed. 

The  next  morning  she  lay  and  had  a  second 
sleep.  Then  after  a  quick  breakfast,  she  put  on 
her  best  clothes  and  went  to  morning  service  at 


126  LITTLE  HOUSES 

the  old  parish  church.  John  Allday  was  not  there. 
She  was  disappointed,  and  stayed  indoors  the  re- 
mainder of  the  day,  irritable  and  restless,  settling 
to  nothing,  yet  with  no  inclination  to  go  out.  She 
was  glad  when  the  darkness  came. 

She  went  to  bed  early,  but  Christmas  Day  was 
in  before  she  fell  asleep. 

The  carol  singers  woke  her,  long  after  daylight, 
and  her  first  startled  thought  was  that  John  Allday 
was  knocking  at  the  door.  She  knew  at  once  that 
it  was  not  he;  there  were  children's  voices.  Still, 
he  might  come  early,  she  reasoned,  and  she  must 
be  ready  for  him.  She  told  herself  while  she  dressed 
that  it  was  ridiculous  to  excite  herself  in  this  way. 
John  might  not  come  at  all — he  might  not  be  able 
to  come.  Yet  she  was  happy. 

She  put  on  her  dressing-gown.  She  looked  nice 
in  her  dressing-gown,  she  knew ;  it  was  a  good  one, 
perpetually  rousing  Mrs.  Onions'  admiration,  for 
that  good  lady  had  always  intended  to  have  one, 
she  explained — it  was  a  luxury  for  the  rich,  but 
all  the  same  she  meant  having  one,  only  one  thing 
and  another:  and  a  long  recital  of  misfortune  fol- 
lowed, half  an  hour  of  it  in  the  telling. 

Twice  as  much  firewood  as  usual  went  to  light 
the  fire  in  the  sitting-room,  and  the  charred  bits 
shot  out  of  the  grate  into  the  Dutch  oven,  threaten- 
ing to  ruin  her  kidneys  and  bacon.  She  had  to 
take  them  away  until  her  fire  burned  up  better.  If 
John  came  she  would  be  having  breakfast;  he  might 
sit  down  and  chat  with  her;  she  might  give  him 
another  breakfast — a  cup  of  tea,  at  least.  It 
would  not  be  proper,  and  was  no  more  than  a  ridicu- 
lous fancy,  probably — oh,  for  sure,  it  was  ridicu- 
lous. Nevertheless,  her  whole  mind  went  out  in 
hope. 

She  had  finished  breakfast,  and  was  sitting 
in  reverie,  when  a  sharp  tap,  tap,  on  the  front 


CHRISTMAS  DAY  127 

door  set  her  inner  self  all  fluttering.  She  did  not 
stay  to  question  who  the  visitor  might  be — she 
knew  it  was  he  who  filled  her  thoughts.  She 
jumped  up,  and  turned  to  the  high  mantelpiece 
where  she  had  put  the  box  of  cigars.  In  her  haste 
she  caught  the  edge  of  the  box  against  the  little 
china  dog  which  Sam  Bloom  had  given  her  at  the 
Pie  Fair,  and  it  fell  on  the  fender;  the  head  rolled 
into  the  middle  of  the  hearthrug.  She  was  startled. 
Then  she  saw  that  it  was  only  the  china  dog  which 
had  fallen,  and  she  uttered  an  exclamation  of  im- 
patience— it  couldn't  be  helped,  and  it  didn't  matter. 
She  hurried  to  the  front  room,  her  face  flushed,  and 
looking  at  her  best.  Inwardly  she  was  in  a  ferment 
of  anticipation. 

Her  disappointment  starved  her  like  a  nipping 
frost. 

"Please,  mother's  sent  me  round  to  wish  you  a 
merry  Christmas." 

It  was  Jacky  Onions,  in  his  best  clothes,  his  face 
shining,  and  his  voice  full  of  the  importance  of  his 
errand. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  to  the  back?"  said 
Maggie  bitterly. 

"Please,  mother  said  I  was  to  be  sure  and  come 
to  the  front  door.  I've  got  a  train — Santa  Claus 
put  it  on  the  floor  by  the  chimley,  a  big  one,  an' 
I've  got  orange,  an'  suckanobs,  an' — 'an — we've  all 
got,  ever  such  a  lot !" 

Maggie  strove  to  interest  herself  in  the  child's 
babbling.  She  took  him  inside,  and  found  a  bright 
penny  in  her  purse  for  him.  He  saw  the  dog's 
head  as  soon  as  he  entered  the  sitting-room.  "It's 
broke!"  he  exclaimed.  "Did  you  break  it?"  She 
had  to  talk  to  him.  Mrs.  Onions  had  invited  her 
to  dinner  to-day,  and  she  would  have  to  be  nice  to 
the  children. 

When  Jacky  had  gone  home  in  glee,  with  his 


128  LITTLE  HOUSES 

bright  penny,  she  sat  down,  tired  and  very  lonely. 
John  had  not  come.  He  might  come  yet — there 
was  time,  she  knew;  but  her  disappointment  was 
so  great  that  she  turned  away  from  this  feeble 
hope.  She  told  herself  it  was  not  there.  The 
china  dog's  head  was  lying  on  the  table,  and, 
presently,  when  she  noticed  it,  her  slow  thoughts 
turned  to  Sam  Bloom.  Would  he  have  broken  a 
promise  like  this?  Her  thoughts  cried  em- 
phatically "No!"  Yesterday  she  would  have 
laughed  at  such  a  promise  from  Sam.  He  said 
things  in  fun,  and  forgot  them  immediately,  or 
remembered  them  only  for  fun.  Capricious,  wilful, 
gallant,  splendid  company,  taking  nothing  on 
earth  seriously — that  was  his  reputation.  Maggie 
had  heard  it  often,  and  knew  it  was  true,  though 
only  half  true;  for  she  had  been  with  him  when 
he  was  serious  even  to  melancholy,  and  she  had 
been  astonished.  The  next  time  he  had  atoned 
with  a  wild  gaiety.  He  seemed  to  live  to  contra- 
dict reputation,  she  had  thought.  He  was  said  to 
be  incorrigibly  lazy,  she  had  heard  him  called  an 
idle  good-for-nothing,  yet  she  knew  that  he  often 
had  a  book  in  his  pocket,  Sam  Bloom,  who  only 
read  sporting  papers  and  frequented  public- 
houses — not  a  library  book,  either,  but  one  of  his 
own,  one  he  had  bought,  a  book  of  poetry,  above 
all.  She  understood  that  a  man  should  like  merry 
company,  horse-racing,  public-houses — so  many 
men  loved  these  things;  she  understood  the  charm 
of  what  she  called  a  good  book,  a  novel  by  Mrs. 
Worboise,  for  instance,  and  the  sentimental  serials 
in  the  weekly  papers;  it  was  natural  that  scholars 
should  learn  poetry  at  school — she  did  not  ask  why ; 
but  to  read  poetry  for  pleasure,  not  even  to  boast 
of  it;  that  was  incomprehensible.  He  had  not 
offered  to  show  her  the  volume — she  had  felt  it 
in  his  pocket  and  taken  it  out  for  fun.  His  sporting 


CHRISTMAS  DAY  129 

friends  did  not  know  him  at  all;  she  had  told  him 
so.  "Of  course  they  don't  know  me.  I  don't  know 
myself,"  he  said. 

Maggie  picked  up  the  china  dog's  body  and  fitted 
the  head  to  it.  There  were  no  other  fragments,  and 
she  might  stick  them  together,  she  thought.  She 
was  very  sorry  it  was  broken — she  must  mend  it. 
She  put  the  cigars  into  the  cupboard  drawer  out  of 
sight.  She  didn't  want  to  see  them. 

The  bells  rang  gaily  for  church.  While  she  was 
washing  up  the  breakfast  things  she  heard  the  band 
playing  in  the  town.  The  children  next  door  were 
shouting  merrily  in  the  yard.  Everybody  was 
happy — it  was  Christmas  Day.  She  was  angry 
with  herself  because  tears  blurred  her  eyes.  The 
postman  came  laden  up  the  hill,  very  late;  she  saw 
him  coming  as  she  crossed  the  bedroom  before  the 
window.  He  was  very  slow — he  had  so  many 
letters  to  deliver.  She  heard  him  tapping  next  door ; 
then  he  went  on  up  the  hill.  She  told  herself  she 
didn't  care.  She  had  had  a  letter  and  a  card  from 
her  sister  yesterday — five  cards  in  all.  But  to-day 
was  Christmas  Day,  and  nothing  had  come.  Her 
disappointment  became  like  a  solid  thing  in  her 
throat. 

A  glance  at  the  clock  reminded  her  that  Mrs. 
Onions  had  invited  her  to  dinner,  and  she  had  some 
presents  to  take  for  the  children.  She  dressed 
quickly.  She  would  make  herself  happy  with  them, 
help  with  the  dinner,  and  the  washing  up  after.  It 
didn't  matter  where  John  Allday  was,  or  what  he 
was  doing — she  would  forget  him — she  had  for- 
gotten him  already.  If  he  came,  and  he  might 
even  yet  come,  it  would  be  too  late.  She  hoped  he 
would  come  and  find  the  house  empty.  So  she  re- 
solved, though  when  she  went  next  door  she  said 
to  Jacky,  "You'll  tell  me  if  you  see  anybody  come 
to  my  door,  won't  you?" 


I3o  LITTLE  HOUSES 

There  was  goose,  with  sage  and  onions,  for  din- 
ner. Mr.  Onions  presided  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  and 
took  appropriate  jokes  from  his  worn  store. 

"Isn't  it  grand,  Missis  Wheatley?"  said  Jacky, 
in  his  enthusiasm. 

"I'll  give  you  Missis  Wheatley,  you  comic  young 
rascal,"  said  his  mother.  "You  call  her  Auntie 
Maggie.  You've  got  real  aunties  never  done  half 
so  much  for  you." 

"I'm  a  'omely  man,  that's  me — 'omely,"  ex- 
plained Mr.  Onions,  "an*  if  you  was  the  queen  on 
her  throne  you  couldn't  make  a  dook  of  me — not 
if  it  was  ever  so." 

Maggie  resolutely  enjoyed  herself. 

They  all  went  a  walk  together  in  the  afternoon. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Onions  paraded  in  solemn  state,  Mr. 
Onions  in  front  with  a  twopenny  cigar  which  he 
had  to  lick  to  make  it  burn  evenly,  and  his  wife 
slightly  in  the  rear.  He  waited  every  now  and 
again  for  her  to  come  up,  but  she  always  fell  behind. 
She  wore  her  best  bonnet,  and  nursed  an  umbrella 
in  her  arms.  Maggie  walked  with  her.  The  chil- 
dren ran  about  everywhere  and  had  to  be  mar- 
shalled at  intervals,  and  the  stragglers  called  in. 
Other  families  were  parading  in  the  same  way,  out- 
wardly solemn,  and  inwardly  'contented.  As  far  as 
the  park — that  was  the  correct  distance.  The  chil- 
dren sulked  when  they  were  ordered  off  the  wet 
grass,  and  Mrs.  Onions  declared,  exasperated,  that 
they  were  aggravating  little  monkeys.  A  few 
moments  later  she  forgave  them,  and  assured  a 
friend  they  were  growing  up  nicely  and  a  great 
comfort  to  her.  They  grinned,  sure  of  their  privi- 
lege to-day.  Maggie  assured  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Onions 
that  she  was  having  a  very  enjoyable  time. 

"I  didn't  like  to  think  of  you  being  lonely.  I 
says  to  my  'usband,  'Now,  there's  that  poor  girl/ 
I  Says " 


CHRISTMAS  DAY  131 

Mrs.  Onions,  good  soul,  loved  to  deck  her  simple 
thoughts  with  superabundant  detail. 

The  band  was  playing  in  Orchard  Street  when 
they  returned,  and  the  children  ran  along  to  listen. 
The  others  had  to  follow. 

While  they  were  standing,  Maggie  was  startled 
by  a  tap  on  the  shoulder.  Sam  Bloom  was  behind 
her. 

"A  merry  Christmas,  Maggie!  What  are  you 
doing  here?" 

"We've  been  for  a  walk,"  said  Maggie. 
"Who's  we — this  crowd?" 

"Yes — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Onions,  next  door.     They 
invited  me  there  to  dinner." 
Sam  made  a  grimace. 
"Good  dinner?" 

"Yes,  very  nice.    They're  very  hospitable." 
"You  aren't  feeling  lonely,  then,"  said  Sam.   "I'm 
sick  of  Christmas.    Are  you  going  to  stay  with  'em 
all  the  evening?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie. 
"Come  to  the  concert  at  the  'George,'  will  you? 
It'll  be  rather  good — it's  something  to  do,  anyhow. 
I  asked  John  Allday,  but  he  won't  come,  I  expect. 
I  wish  you  would,  Maggie.  I  know  you're 
lonely,  like  me — you  aren't  really  enjoying  yourself 
with  these  folks.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  they're  kind, 
but  you  aren't  one  of  'em.  What  can  you  do? 
It  isn't  nature  to  be  alone — you've  got  to  find 
some  sort  o'  company.  If  you  meant  'A  merry 
Christmas'  instead  of  just  saying  it,  you  wouldn't 
refuse." 

"All  right,"  said  Maggie,  at  length.  Her  sym- 
pathies were  moved,  for  he  was  lonely  and  yearning 
for  companionship,  as  she  was. 

"Eight  o'clock,  in  the  Bullen,  under  the  Town 
Hall  clock,"  he  arranged. 

Mrs.  Onions  was  hungry  for  gossip. 


132  LITTLE  HOUSES 

"We  were  at  school  together — it's  Mr.  Bloom, 
you  know,"  said  Maggie. 

"Old  Mr.  Peacock's  grandson.  Oh,  yes,  I  re- 
member him,  my  dear,  a  very  pleasant  young  fellow, 

I  should  say,  by  all  appearance " 

"What— him?"  said  Mr.  Onions.  "He's  a  wild 
young  rip,  a  proper  un." 

"We've  all  got  to  have  our  fling  a  bit,"  said  Mrs. 
Onions,  benevolently.  "You've  had  your  day, 
and  many  a  heartbreaking  hour  you've  give  me 
over  it." 

She  began  a  long  anecdote  of  one  of  his  pecca- 
dilloes, and  they  argued  over  unimportant  details. 
Mrs.  Onions  never  by  any  chance  lost  her  bearings 
among  the  tangled  forests  of  her  irrelevancies,  and 
when  the  story  was  exhausted  she  came  back  to 
Maggie,  embarrassing  her. 

"Is  the  young  gentleman  coming  up  to  see  you?" 
"He's  invited  me  to  go  to  a  concert  with  him 
to-night." 

"At  the  'George'?"  said  Mr.  Onions.  "I  was 
thinking  of  going." 

"No!"  said  his  wife  emphatically.  "Home's  your 
place.  With  Maggie  here  it's  different — she's  got 
her  young  gentleman." 

Maggie  blushed.  Mr.  Onions  joked  about  the 
miseries  of  married  life  until  Mrs.  Onions  reproved 
him  before  the  children.  At  tea  he  was  inclined 
to  be  morose,  and  had  to  be  reproved  again.  The 
children  were  getting  tired  and  cross;  jacky  had 
to  be  smacked  in  the  back  kitchen. 

Half  past  seven  was  striking  in  the  neighbouring 
steeple  when  Maggie  took  the  back  door  key  from 
its  nail  behind  the  ivy  on  the  wall.  It  was  cold  in 
the  sitting-room,  melancholy.  When  she  was  ready 
to  go  out,  she  saw  the  cigars — she  had  put  them  out 
ready  to  take  for  Sam.  Now  she  was  not  sure 
she  ought  to  take  them — perhaps  it  would  be  better 


CHRISTMAS  DAY  133 

not  to.  She  ought  to  have  given  them  to  Mr. 
Onions  for  his  hospitality.  That  would  be  the  thing 
to  do,  of  course,  to-morrow  or  the  next  day,  as 
though  she  had  got  them  specially. 

She  left  them  on  the  table. 

As  she  walked  down  the  hill  she  recollected  that 
the  'George/  where  she  was  going,  was  a  public- 
house;  the  concert  might  be  a  sort  of  music-hall 
entertainment.  Would  there  be  many  ladies  there? 
None,  probably.  What  sort  of  women?  There 
would  be  women,  surely.  Did  Sam  know  exactly 
what  it  was  going  to  be?  She  was  worried.  She 
did  not  want  to  be  seen  in  a  low  music-hall. 
Then  she  remembered  that  the  "George"  let  the 
hall  for  dances  and  socials — this  might  be  quite 
respectable. 

Sam  met  her  before  she  reached  the  Town  Hall. 

"I  thought  you  weren't  coming,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  break  a  promise,"  she  assured  him,  and 
the  thought  brought  into  her  mind  the  image  of 
John  Allday.  He  wouldn't  come,  Sam  had  said. 
Did  he  think  it  was  beneath  him  ? 

"What  sort  of  thing  is  it?  Will  there  be  many 
ladies?"  she  asked. 

She  saw  she  had  surprised  him. 

"I  don't  know.  I  never  thought  of  that."  He 
laughed.  "It's  a — a — well,  it  ain't  exactly  "The 
Messiah" — but  it's  all  right — 'pon  my  honour, 
Maggie." 

He  took  her  arm,  and  laughed  away  her  scruples. 
All  the  time  they  were  walking  towards  the 
"George." 

Maggie  had  never  been  in  a  public-house  in  her 
life,  save  when  she  was  away  on  holiday  and  entered 
for  a  meal.  She  was  ashamed  now.  The  smells 
of  beer  and  tobacco  were  nauseating,  the  talk 
coarse.  Already  the  concert  had  begun.  She 
saw  that  most  of  the  audience  were  men,  and  a  fog 


I34  LITTLE  HOUSES 

of  acrid  smoke  hung  in  the  air  above  their  heads. 
The  women  were  slatternly,  or  gay  with  bright 
colours;  some  of  them  had  brought  infants  whom 
they  could  not  leave  at  home ;  Maggie  was  sorry  for 
the  little  things,  wailing  feebly  as  their  mothers  tried 
to  hush  them  to  sleep.  Everybody  seemed  to  know 
Sam,  and  Maggie  was  horrified  to  find  herself  con- 
spicuous. She  was  angry  with  herself  for  coming, 
and  miserable. 

''Do  you  really  like  this  sort  of  thing?"  she 
asked. 

"Good  God,  no!"  said  Sam  in  a  fierce  whisper. 
Then  he  added  lightly,  "I've  sunk  to  it,  I  sup- 
pose. 

"And.  now  I've  sunk,"  said  Maggie. 

He  caught  her  hand  in  his,  hurting  her. 

"We'll  go.    You  shan't  stay." 

"No,  no!  I  will  stay!"  she  protested.  "I've 
come  of  my  own  accord." 

A  waiter  brought  Sam  whisky,  and  set  a  glass  of 
port  before  her.  She  drank  it  off  at  once. 

She  had  never  been  in  a  music-hall.  She  had 
heard  of  the  Tivoli,  a  wonderful  new  place  opened 
in  London  a  year  or  two  ago,  and  she  had  heard 
her  mother  talk  of  going  to  London  once  and  seeing 
the  crowd  going  into  the  Alhambra.  Mr.  Onions 
had  been  telling  her  to-day  of  his  only  visit  to 
London,  the  greatest  travelling  adventure  of  his 
life.  He  had  seen  Lord  Dundreary.  She  had  been 
to  pantomimes,  and  to  the  Selbridge  Theatre; 
and  where  she  had  been  a  housemaid  she  had 
seen  plays  acted  by  fit-up  crowds  who  had  per- 
formed in  the  local  market  hall,  and  had  gone  the 
next  day,  leaving  their  posters  to  soak  off  the 
walls  with  the  rain.  The  concert  to-night  was 
crude  and  vulgar,  little  better  than  a  show  at  the 
Pie  Fair;  but  after  a  while,  when  the  wine  set 
her  tingling,  she  became  interested,  and  at  length 


CHRISTMAS  DAY  135 

she  admitted  to  Sam  that  it  helped  to  pass  the  time 
nicely. 

A  piano,  two  violins,  and  a  cornet  made  the 
orchestra,  and  the  people  in  the  front  rows  treated 
the  players  to  drinks.  A  huge  contralto,  with  an 
immense  display  of  powdered  arms  and  bosom, 
sang  sentimental  songs  which  brought  tears  to 
some  of  the  women's  eyes;  then  she  strode  off  and 
reappeared  in  tights.  A  red-nosed  man  shouted 
about  his  mother-in-law  until  the  audience  roared 
with  merriment,  and  he  made  great  play  with  a 
kipper  on  a  string.  A  nigger  minstrel  argued  with 
the  orchestra.  Then  came  a  troupe  of  handbell 
ringers — the  "Bluebells  of  Scotland,"  and  "Home, 
Sweet  Home";  then  a  conjuror,  a  foreign-looking 
man,  obviously  French,  to  anybody  but  a  French- 
man. Maggie's  head  ached,  and  her  eyes  smarted 
from  the  smoke.  She  wondered  what  sort  of  people 
these  performers  were  at  home.  This  fat  contralto, 
for  instance — did  she  like  doing  this?  In  fancy 
Maggie  shaped  a  private  life  for  each:  for  the  fat 
woman  a  broken  romance — Maggie  had  caught  the 
sentimentality  of  her  songs. 

Sam  took  her  away  before  the  end.  He  regretted 
having  invited  her,  and  was  irritable. 

She  was  giddy  when  they  were  outside,  and  had 
to  catch  his  arm.  She  understood  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  she  knew  she  ought  to  be  ashamed,  and 
she  would  be  ashamed ;  but  now  she  was  filled  with 
a  careless,  bubbling  gaiety. 

"Sam,  you've  made  me  drunk,"  she  told  him. 

"No,  no,"  he  assured  her.  "It's  the  fresh  air, 
after  the  stuffy  place  inside.  You're  all  right,  my 
dear." 

She  laughed — she  did  not  know  why — and  she 
wanted  to  go  on  laughing. 

"You'll  have  to  see  me  home,"  she  said. 

It  was  a  raw,  cold  night,  with  a  fine  rain  falling. 


136  LITTLE  HOUSES 

The  streets  were  deserted.  Here  and  there  in 
Castle  Street  the  front  windows  were  lit  up,  and 
sounds  of  music  and  laughter  came  out.  At  one 
place  the  shadow  of  an  old  man's  toothless  face 
was  cast  in  profile  on  the  blind;  he  was  talking, 
and  the  shadow  jaws  opened  and  shut  like  those 
of  a  ventriloquist's  doll.  Maggie  laughed  till  he 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  When  the  shadow  moved  off, 
and  they  had  gone  up  the  hill,  she  still  had  fits  of 
chuckling. 

"It  was  so  comic,  wasn't  it?"  she  repeated. 

Sam  moved  his  arm  and  put  it  round  her  waist. 
They  walked  very  slowly,  pressed  against  each  other. 

"It's  'good  night,'  just  as  we're  beginning  to  enjoy 
ourselves,"  said  Sam,  when  they  arrived. 

"Yes,"  said  Maggie,  reluctantly.  "That's  the  way 
with  everything." 

They  were  silent  a  while. 

"I'll  come  in  and  say  'good  night/  shall  I?"  said 
he  suddenly.  "It  isn't  late." 

He  held  her  tight  Her  heart  leaped,  and  she 
struggled  feebly  to  escape. 

"Somebody  might  see  you.  I've  got  to  go  round 
the  back.  They'd  hear  you  next  door." 

"I'll  stay  here,  then.  You  can  go  round  and  let 
me  in  at  the  front.  Don't  be  long." 

He  took  his  arm  from  her  waist,  and  walked 
sharply  away  towards  the  top  of  the  hill.  She  was 
bemused;  he  had  not  given  her  time  to  think. 
For  a  moment  she  stood  watching  him — he  did 
not  turn.  Then  very  slowly,  with  her  breath  catch- 
ing in  her  throat  and  her  heart  thumping,  she  went 
to  the  entry  and  round  to  the  back  door.  Her 
hand  shook  as  she  fumbled  to  put  the  key  in  the 
lock.  She  was  afraid  of  the  darkness  indoors. 
When  she  had  lit  the  gas  she  perceived  the  box  of 
cigars  lying  on  the  table.  Her  first  instinct  was  to 
hide  them,  but  a  noise  startled  her:  somebody  was 


CHRISTMAS  DAY  137 

in  the  yard  outside — at  the  back  door.  She  was 
terrified. 

Sam  came  in  quietly.  She  had  not  once  thought 
he  might  follow  her. 

"Didn't  you  know  it  was  me?"  he  whispered. 

Without  understanding  what  she  was  about,  she 
picked  up  the  cigars. 

"What  have  you  got  there?"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  the  box  in  her  hand.  A  smarting 
misery  overwhelmed  her,  forcing  tears  into  her 
eyes. 

"For  me?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  exclaimed,  and  she  went  up  to 
him,  and  pressed  the  box  into  his  hand.  He  kissed 
her  softly,  and  thanked  her  over  and  over  again. 

Then  he  turned  from  her,  leaving  her  standing 
by  the  table.  She  heard  him  turn  the  key  in  the 
back  door.  When  he  returned  he  held  it  out  and 
put  it  on  the  table.  Then  he  took  her,  all  trembling, 
in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her  passionately. 


The  sticks  crackled  in  the  sitting-room  grate. 
A  thin,  blue  reek  twisted  slowly  above  the  coals, 
and  then  shot  under  the  draw-tin,  caught  by  the 
draught.  Maggie  took  the  bellows,  and  went  on 
her  knees  to  use  them,  until  the  flames  roared.  Then 
she  hung  the  bellows  on  their  nail,  and  turned 
to  the  table,  moving  all  the  while  in  a  stealthy, 
unnatural  way,  as  though  she  had  no  right  to  be 
doing  these  things,  and  might  be  caught  in  her  crime 
at  any  minute.  The  blind  was  down  still,  a  dull 
yellow  rectangle,  letting  the  grey  daylight  in  at  the 
sides;  several  times  she  glanced  at  it  swiftly  as 
though  she  expected  to  find  somebody  peeping  at 
her.  From  the  kitchen  came  the  sounds  of  the  tap 
running  into  a  tin  bowl,  and  then  a  splashing.  She 


138  LITTLE  HOUSES' 

was  startled  in  a  moment  by  a  low  whistle, 
beginning  the  air  of  a  song  she  had  heard  last  night. 
She  darted  to  the  doorway. 

"You'll  have  'em  hear  you !"  she  whispered. 

Sam  was  by  the  sink,  rubbing  his  neck  vigorously 
with  a  towel. 

"I  forgot." 

He  grinned,  and  Maggie  returned  to  the  table  and 
the  cupboard.  She  had  no  laughter. 

Presently  he  came  in,  put  on  his  collar  and  tie, 
and  finished  dressing.  Neither  spoke. 

"Dim,  religious  light,"  he  said,  when  at  last  they 
sat  down. 

Without  a  word  Maggie  went  to  the  blind  and 
jerked  it  to  the  top. 

"No,  no,  my  dear  girl.  I  was  joking.  I  didn't 
mean  you  to  take  it  like  that,"  he  said  kindly. 

He  pulled  the  blind  down  again,  and  kissed  her. 
She  made  no  response.  When  he  spoke  to  her  again 
she  burst  into  tears.  He  had  to  coax  her  to  eat  as 
he  would  a  sick  child. 

As  soon  as  they  had  finished  breakfast  he  put  on 
his  coat  and  hat,  and  took  one  of  his  cigars  to  smoke 
when  he  was  outside. 

"This  afternoon — three  o'clock,  by  the  Town 
Hall,"  said  he. 

"I  don't  know." 

He  grew  irritable. 

"All  right — up  here,  then.  I'll  come  round  the 
back  and  knock  loud.  You  can  be  ready." 

"I'll  come,"  she  said. 

"Good!    I'm  off." 

He  feigned  not  to  see  her  humour.  They  went 
together  through  the  front  room  and  kissed  before 
she  opened  the  door  to  let  him  go.  He  stepped  out 
quickly,  and  she  shut  the  door  without  glancing 
after  him.  Then  she  walked  slowly  into  the 
sitting-room  and  sat  down  in  her  place,  her  eye 


CHRISTMAS  DAY  139 

red  and  smarting  with  tears  unshed.  She  was 
utterly  wretched. 

Presently  the  sound  of  movement  in  the  back 
yards  galvanized  her  to  a  swift  activity:  the 
breakfast  things  had  to  be  washed  up  before  Mrs. 
Onions  might  come  in.  Her  energy  only  lasted  for 
the  task.  When  it  was  done  and  the  blind  was  up, 
she  sat  down  again,  craving  to  be  alone,  to  hide 
herself  from  everybody.  She  dreaded  Mrs.  Onions' 
busy  chatter.  She  shrank  from  her  own  image  in 
the  glass.  For  a  long  while  upstairs  she  sat 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  gazed  vacantly  into 
the  wall  without  a  thought  of  stirring,  until  the 
cold  benumbed  her,  and  the  clock  struck  to  tell  her 
how  she  was  losing  time,  when  she  had  so  much 
to  do,  so  much  to  think.  Once  she  looked  out  and 
prayed  for  rain  to  fall,  and  the  next  instant 
she  recollected  that  it  would  bring  Sam  up  here, 
and  then  she  wanted  fine  weather.  At  a  moment 
she  was  reckless,  then  gay,  then  despondent,  then 
ashamed.  When  Mrs.  Onions  came  in,  Maggie  ex- 
plained that  she  was  out  of  sorts,  and  Mrs.  Onions 
exasperated  her  with  sympathy. 

"It's  your  nerves,  my  dear.  I  know  I  was  often 
like  that  before  I  was  married." 

Maggie  laughed  wildly,  and  Mrs.  Onions  was 
alarmed.  She  advised  a  certain  patent  medicine 
which  "had  done  wonders  for  her  husband's  brother 
William's  daughter,  Agnes,  who  had  gone  to  a  mere 
nothink,  and  only  took  enough  food  to  keep  a 
sparrer,  let  alone  a  Christian,  and  that  without  a 
word  of  a  lie." 


Sam  Bloom  walked  rapidly  from  the  house  up 
Cowards  the  crest  of  the  hill.  He  stopped  to  light 
his  cigar  in  the  shelter  of  the  bridge  parapet,  above 


i4o  LITTLE  HOUSES 

the  deep  railway  cutting,  and  he  stood  there  a 
moment,  enjoying  the  freshness  of  the  morning, 
and  looking  back  at  the  house  he  had  left.  Then 
he  walked  sharply  over  the  hill,  and  made  for  the 
country.  He  wanted  to  be  alone. 

He  was  not  at  ease.  He  felt  that  he  ought  to  be 
gay,  for  he  had  just  come  from  a  glorious  escapade, 
to  be  remembered  many  a  day  among  the  best  of 
his  adventures,  to  be  called  up  at  will,  not  to  hang 
upon  his  thoughts,  oppressing  them.  It  wasn't 
a  thing  to  brood  over — it  was  past.  He  resented 
the  heaviness  of  it,  a  grand  adventure  a  while  ago, 
and  become  already  a  burden  which  he  knew  he 
must  carry.  He  had  promised  to  meet  Maggie 
this  afternoon — he  had  asked  her,  implored  her. 
That  was  foolish.  It  were  better  forgotten,  at  least 
for  a  time;  and  he  couldn't  forget;  he  would  never 
be  able  to  forget.  "I've  done  it  this  time !"  he  com- 
plained, and  his  thoughts  sank  in  gloom.  But  the 
air  was  fresh,  the  solitude  pleasant  to  his  mood.  A 
robin  flitted  before  him  along  a  hedge  and  looked 
at  him  with  bright,  beady  eyes.  He  smiled  a  mo- 
ment— his  burden  was  not  all  sadness. 

He  came  home  by  a  muddy  path  along  the  river. 
His  grandfather  was  sitting  in  his  easy  chair  by 
the  fire. 

"A  fine  lad  you  are — no  consideration  for  a  soul 
on  earth!" 

That  was  his  greeting. 

"I  couldn't  tell  you — I  didn't  know,"  began  Sam 
humbly.  "I  was  out  with  friends,  and  it  got  so 
late  they  pressed  me  to  stay  all  night.  I  went  over 
to  Selbridge." 

He  invented  a  story  of  his  evening,  adding  the 
concert  at  the  "George"  for  half  an  hour  of  it,  for 
fear  that  his  grandfather  might  come  to  learn  he 
had  been  there.  The  old  man  stretched  out  his 
.withered  hands  to  the  fire,  and  said  nothing  at  all. 


CHRISTMAS  DAY  141 

Sam  grew  angry.  He  was  bitterly  ashamed  of  his 
lying,  and  his  grandfather's  silence  roused  him  to 
exasperation. 

"You  needn't  believe  me  unless  you  like,"  he  said, 
savage  in  his  own  torment.  "I'll  tell  you  something 
you  will  believe,  though — where  I  was  in  the  after- 
noon, and  where  I  shall  be  this  afternoon,  too.  I'm 
engaged." 

His  grandfather  swung  round  on  his  chair. 

"You're  what?" 

"I'm  engaged,"  said  Sam  sullenly.  His  own  voice 
had  startled  him ;  it  seemed  to  have  spoken  without 
his  permission;  and  now  the  words  were  said — 
nothing  could  take  them  back. 

"Who's  the  young  woman?"  said  his  grand- 
father slowly. 

"Miss  Wheatley — Maggie  Wheatley — that's  the 
lady,"  said  Sam,  striving  to  dignity. 

"Up  in  Castle  Street — her  as  her  mother  died!" 

Sam  nodded. 

The  old  man  rose  very  solemnly  from  his  chair. 

"I  don't  know  much  about  the  daughter,"  he 
said  gently;  "but  she's  a  good  girl,  my  lad,  I  don't 
doubt.  Her  mother  was  a  God-fearing  woman, 
and  very  unfortunate.  If  you  think  you're  fond 
of  her  as  you  should  be — and  I  dare  say  you've 
thought  it  over  very  careful,  the  two  of  you — it 
means  money,  you  know,  going  without  things,  and 
sufferings  together  as  well  as  happiness — in  sick- 
ness and  in  health — and  children  to  bring  up  in  the 
fear  of  the  Lord — you've  thought  all  these  things 
• — well,  it's  only  for  me  to  say,  'God  bless  you 
both.'  " 

Sam  was  bitterly  distressed. 

"You'll  bring  her  to  see  me  this  afternoon?"  said 
his  grandfather. 

"I  haven't  arranged,"  began  Sam,  in  dread. 

"Yes,  yes;  of  course  you  will.     I  didn't  know 


I42  LITTLE  HOUSES 

or  we  could  ha'  got  in  something  special.  We  must 
see  Mrs.  Thomas.  We'll  manage,  I  dare  say. 
There's  the  ham,  and  we  can  get  a  pork  pie,  and 
some  cakes  and  things.  There's  somebody  will  be 
open." 

He  went  to  the  cupboard,  tottering  in  his  haste. 
"God  bless  my  life,  here's  me  getting  excited  like 
a  young  lad !"  he  exclaimed.  He  went  to  see  what 
was  at  the. cellar  head,  and  then  to  the  cupboard 
again. 

Sam  went  out.  His  distress  was  going,  and  he 
suffered  a  queer  feeling  of  clarion.  He  would  have 
to  go  up  early  to  tell  Maggie.  She  must  put  on  all 
her  best.  He  heard  his  grandfather  bustling  to  and 
fro,  talking  to  himself  in  his  old,  quavering  voice. 
Sam  felt  something  rising  in  his  throat. 


CHAPTER  VI 

SPRINGTIME 

THE  New  Year  brought  with  it  an  offering  of 
calm,  sunny  weather,  cheating  the  primroses 
and  auriculas  in  the  gardens  where  they  were 
too  anxious  for  the  spring.  Then  the  west  wind 
gathered  the  storm  clouds  and  swept  the  earth 
with  rain;  and  when  at  last  he  was  gone  in  a  rage, 
the  east  wind  gathered  all  the  clouds  in  his  icy 
hands,  squeezed  the  snow  out  of  them,  and  scattered 
it  everywhere.  Mr.  Allday  went  to  bed;  the 
bronchitis  kettle  came  out  of  the  cupboard  and  sat 
steaming  on  the  trivet  at  the  bedroom  fire.  Men 
in  their  loud  thousands  had  to  stand  in  icy  slush 
to  see  Selbridge  play  their  opening  match  for  the 
English  Cup,  and  caught  colds,  and  coughs,  and 
rheumatism,  all  for  the  love  and  honour  of  Sel- 
bridge sport,  nobly  upheld  by  eleven  strangers 
who  worked  three  hours  a  week,  and  even  more, 
for  cash.  While  the  enthusiasts  shouted  hoarse 
advice  and  censure  every  Saturday  afternoon, 
and  argued  and  surmised  and  criticized  to  speed 
away  the  empty  hours  till  Saturday  came  again, 
other  and  more  serious  enthusiasts  were  studying 
form  and  pedigree,  weights  and  acceptances  and 
odds,  ready  for  the  spring  which  always  came  to 
Lincoln  first.  The  ladies  enjoyed  the  spring 
after  another  manner — carpets  up,  and  beaten  on 
the  back  grass  plot,  clean  curtains  ready,  painters 

J43 


144  LITTLE  HOUSES 

and  paper-hangers  whistling  in  the  parlour,  meals 
anywhere  and  anyhow,  and  all  the  while  the  new 
fashions  in  the  shops  to  be  considered.  The 
children — nobody  told  them  what  to  do  or  think 
about — they  knew,  as  surely  as  the  birds  learnt  to 
mate:  spring  had  to  be  worshipped  with  marbles, 
tops,  and  skipping  ropes. 

All  the  time  the  fields  and  woods,  the  hedge- 
banks  and  the  gardens,  were  getting  ready.  The 
football  followers  and  their  wives,  and  those  sports- 
men who  loved  to  see  thoroughbred  horses'  names 
arranged  with  figures  in  the  newspapers — even  they 
had  to  notice  the  crocuses  coming  out.  "Yes, 
it's  spring  again,"  they  said,  as  they  paraded 
solemnly  after  Sunday's  heavy  dinner,  and  they 
were  satisfied.  Nature  was  doing  her  duty,  not 
perfectly,  of  course,  and  there  was  much  to  grumble 
at,  but  she  was  obviously  striving  to  perform  the 
task  commanded  by  the  calendar  and  by  other 
season-making  things,  such  as  the  spring  handicaps. 
It  was  nice  to  see  the  crocuses  coming  up  so  regular 
every  year — very  nice.  That  was  enough  time 
spent  over  the  crocuses,  and  the  promenaders 
went  sedately  back  to  tea,  and  then  supper  at  nine, 
cold  meat  and  pies,  and  cheese,  and  beer,  and  those 
beatific  feelings  of  repletion  which  are  accepted  as 
righteousness. 

Here  and  there  one  heard  the  dryads  whispering 
together — only  here  and  there,  for  common  folk 
expected  them  to  shout,  and,  hearing  nothing, 
declared  there  were  no  dryads.  Sam  Bloom  and 
Maggie  heard  them  while  they  stood  together  by 
gates,  and  under  walls  sheltered  from  the  night 
winds.  John  Allday  heard  them,  when  he  was 
out  alone;  he  was  often  alone  now,  suffering 
from  a  melancholy  for  which  he  had  neither  cure 
nor  explanation.  His  mother  was  anxious.  His 
father  assured  her  that  he  would  get  over  it  all 


SPRINGTIME  145 

right,  and  then  he  startled  her:  "You  haven't 
heard  of  him  being  out  with  a  young  woman  at  all, 
have  you?  I  don't  say  it  is,  and  you  needn't 
go  frightening  yourself.  I  have  seen  'em  take  it 
that  way."  John  had  no  suspicions  that  he  was 
being  closely  watched.  The  Kingsnortons  were 
away  in  London,  the  glee  party's  season  was  nearly 
over,  Sam  was  always  with  Maggie — John  was 
lonely.  His  greatest  pleasures  now,  evenings  with 
the  Benlows,  left  him  discontented  afterwards. 
He  did  not  seek  to  understand  what  he  craved; 
there  was  more  vague  yearning  and  restlessness 
than  misery  in  his  loneliness. 

Day  after  day  there  was  something  new  for  those 
who  sought  eagerly,  in  the  sunsets,  the  night 
showers,  the  morning  pavements  drying,  the  sky 
reflected  in  the  roadway's  water  puddles,  white 
and  brilliant  blue,  washed  clear  as  it  is  only  in 
early  spring.  The  throstle  called  boldly  over  the 
gardens.  In  the  park  the  beds  were  tidied  up, 
neatly  ready  for  the  green  shafts  peeping  up  from 
the  soil.  Another  week — no  change,  or  very  little 
—the  green  spears  higher,  maybe;  the  high  winds 
and  the  hail  had  kept  things  back,  explained  the  Sun- 
day promenaders.  Nevertheless,  the  great  event  had 
happened :  spring  had  really  come,  in  secret,  and 
not  a  dozen  knew.  The  chaffinch  called  "pink, 
pink"  from  a  thorn;  another,  hidden,  repeated 
his  cheery  little  madrigal;  thrush  and  blackbird 
hopped  over  the  lawn;  starlings  were  busy — 
these  things  had  happened  last  week  too.  To-day 
there  was  added  another  voice,  "chiff-chaff,  chiff- 
chaff" — the  first  summer  visitor  here,  telling 
everybody  with  all  his  little  might,  and  nobody 
understanding.  Despite  the  clouds  mounting  the 
sky,  the  cold  wind,  and  the  rush  of  bitter  rain — 
"chiff-chaff,  chiff-chaff" — the  message  long  awaited, 
sighed  for,  and  uncomprehended. 


146  LITTLE  HOUSES 

Maggie  Wheatley  had  an  engagement  ring,  set 
with  two  tiny  pearls  and  a  ruby,  and  every  spare 
moment  was  taken  for  her  sewing;  she  had  to 
steal  hours  out  of  the  night  so  that  she  might 
be  ready  for  Easter.  She  wanted  to  look  nice,  to 
win  the  praise  of  the  few  who  would  be  interested 
in  her  wedding-day.  As  she  sat  in  the  quiet 
sitting-room  sewing  diligently,  she  amused  herself 
often  with  plans  of  a  future  in  which  Sam  would 
rise  in  business  and  in  social  life,  and  they  would 
live  in  a  bigger,  more  comfortable,  house,  with  a 
good  plot  of  garden  at  the  back.  There  were  some 
nice  villas  going  up  in  Selbridge,  long  rows  of  them, 
all  alike,  save  for  the  names  on  the  gates,  grandiosely 
eloquent  of  the  higher  respectability.  Why 
shouldn't  they  get  on?  They  were  both  young, 
with  health  and  energy.  She  was  refined,  and  knew 
she  could  play  the  fine  lady  if  she  were  given  the 
means.  Sam  was  clever — he  would  get  on  if  she 
kept  him  in  the  right  path,  and  she  could  do  that, 
surely.  He  was  cleverer  than  John  Allday,  for 
instance — much  cleverer.  Everybody  admitted  that 
Sam  was  clever ;  he  had  been  at  the  top  of  the  class 
at  school  whenever  he  had  wanted,  though  it  was 
not  often.  John  Allday  was  getting  on  fast. 
Several  times  Maggie  heard  of  his  progress.  It 
was  due  to  his  perseverance,  not  to  real  cleverness. 
Sam  could  beat  him — he  must.  Maggie  felt  herself 
challenged  to  bring  Sam  forward,  and  to  support 
him  continually  with  her  devotion;  she  vowed 
solemnly  that  he  should  not  fail. 

Mrs.  Onions  was  delighted  at  the  news  of  the 
engagement.  When  Maggie  was  at  home,  she  was 
often  in  to  help,  doing  heavy  house-work  for  her 
so  that  the  sewing  might  go  on.  "I've  just  popped 
in  a  minute  to  see  how  you're  a  getting  on,  my  dear," 
was  her  usual  explanation,  and  while  she  chatted 
she  worked  hard,  despite  Maggie's  protests.  She 


SPRINGTIME  147 

insisted  on  entertaining  Sam  and  Maggie  to  supper 
several  evenings.  Mr.  Onions  borrowed  shillings 
from  Sam,  and  repaid  them  in  racing  tips  for  tired 
horses.  Sam  promised  Maggie  to  give  up  horse- 
racing;  indirectly  she  heard  of  changes  in  him, 
and  she  was  proud.  At  the  Royal  Emporium 
the  shopgirls  took  a  new  interest  in  her:  she  was 
leaving  to  get  married,  and  so  she  grew  daily  in 
importance.  Marriage  to  them  was  life's  consum- 
mation, ardently  to  be  longed  for,  exaggerated  in 
all  its  joys  by  visionary  contrast  with  their  present 
monotony  of  existence.  It  was  easy  to  get  a 
young  man  to  walk  them  out,  but  one  to  propose 
marriage  seriously — that  was  another  matter.  Only 
the  foreman  was  pessimistic:  "I  hope  you  are 
doing  the  right  thing,  Miss  Wheatley.  If  he's 
got  the  right  character,  and  a  good  home  to  give 
you,  then  I'll  wish  you  every  happiness."  He 
was  a  middle-aged  bachelor,  and  the  girls  smiled; 
they  said  he  was  fond  of  Maggie.  She  smiled  too, 
but  his  words  left  a  bitterness  behind  them.  Sam 
had  not  got  a  good  home  to  give  her.  He  had 
not  a  home  at  all.  He  had  no  money.  He  had 
never  saved  a  penny  before,  and  now  the  time  was 
so  short.  She  was  providing  the  home.  It  was 
perfectly  natural — she  had  the  home,  and  she  was 
alone.  Why  wait?  They  wanted  each  other 
now.  They  would  save  after  they  were  married; 
she  felt  that  it  would  be  surer,  for  she  would 
have  him  to  herself  then.  Sometimes  when  she 
was  alone  sewing  her  mind  would  suffer  torments 
of  disquietude — only  when  she  was  alone.  Her 
evenings  with  Sam  always  brought  her  a  passionate 
felicity. 

She  walked  to  Selbridge  on  fine  mornings  when 
she  rose  early  enough.  Sometimes  she  took  the 
bus.  When  she  was  very  late  she  ran  down  the 
Steep  bank  to  the  station.  She  generally  returned 


I4g  LITTLE  HOUSES 

in  the  bus.  Now  Sam  walked  over  to  fetch  her 
at  nine  o'clock  several  nights  a  week,  and  brought 
her  back  by  train,  first  class,  in  a  compartment 
to  themselves,  splendid,  though  extravagant  luxury; 
and  what  was  a  little  money  saved,  such  a  very 
little,  compared  with  these  delicious  moments? 
They  reasoned  this  way  often,  always  with  the  same 
result,  holding  out  their  hands  for  the  joys  falling 
like  tinted  blossoms  from  the  tree  of  life.  There 
was  the  thrilling  of  anticipation  all  the  day  through, 
the  quick  walk  to  the  station,  the  excitement, 
while  the  train  was  standing,  lest  anyone  should 
intrude,  and  the  devices  for  keeping  out  the  folk 
who  never  came,  the  slow  gliding  from  the  plat- 
form, faster  and  faster — safe.  Sam  put  his  arm 
about  her,  and  they  sat  pressed  together,  very  still, 
very  happy,  such  a  little  while,  tilting  on  the  curve, 
roaring  into  the  cutting,  nearly  home,  and  the 
brakes  grinding  as  the  station  lights  peeped  at 
them,  and  heads  moved  past  the  window.  The 
old  porter  at  the  gate  touched  his  cap,  and  wished 
them  "good  night." 

On  early  closing  days,  when  the  weather  was  pro- 
pitious, they  walked  into  the  country,  beyond  the 
Toll.  On  fine  nights  the  sky  was  filled  with  stars 
for  them.  One  week  there  would  be  the  new  moon, 
thin  sickle-blade  of  fortune,  which  they  must  not 
see  first  through  glass.  At  the  next  early-closing 
clay  there  was  the  first  quarter  swung  in  the  sky, 
and  then  the  full-round,  climbing  up  through  the 
rack  of  clouds,  then  the  darkness,  and  the  solemn 
stars,  and  the  peewits  calling.  They  counted 
the  full  moons  till  Easter;  it  seemed  to  them  more 
romantic  than  counting  by  the  figured  calendar; 
they  looked  in  the  prayer-book,  and  made  the 
mystic  calculation  from  the  golden  number. 

Sam  startled  her  one  Sunday  afternoon  soon  after 
their  engagement  had  begun. 


SPRINGTIME  149 

"Guess  where  I'm  going  to  take  you  after  tea. 
To  Alldays.  We  were  school  chums,  you  remember. 
I've  asked  him  to  be  best  man.  I  promised  I  would 
take  you  to-night." 

When  she  went,  all  their  hospitality  could  not 
quell  entirely  her  agitation.  Mr.  Allday  liked  her 
for  what  he  called  her  quiet  modesty.  "Very 
lady-like  and  nice,"  he  said  afterwards  to  Mrs. 
Allday.  "Sam's  lucky."  Mrs.  Allday  agreed,  and 
added,  "It  is  to  be  hoped  Sam  will  always  think 
so.  He  needs  somebody  very  firm." 

She  went  to  see  Maggie  in  the  afternoon  of  the 
next  early  closing  day. 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you,  my  dear,  what  arrange- 
ments you  think  of  making  about  your  wedding. 
We've  been  talking  it  over.  We  should  like  you 
to  be  married  from  our  house.  Knowing  your  poor 
mother  so  many  years,  and  you  from  a  baby — and 
Sam  as  well.  There's  John  best  man,  you  see." 

Maggie  accepted  gladly. 

It  became  a  regular  custom  for  her  to  take  her 
sewing  on  early  closing  days,  and  sit  with  Mrs. 
Allday  in  the  afternoon.  Mr.  Allday  slept  till 
nearly  tea-time,  and  then  came  down  and  made 
solemn  jokes.  After  tea  there  was  more  sewing, 
and  then  John  came.  Sometimes  Maggie  and 
he  were  for  a  few  moments  alone.  She  was  em- 
barrassed, and  she  dared  to  think  that  he  was 
affected  in  some  way  like  herself.  He  said  very 
little,  simple  commonplaces  handed  to  and  fro, 
but  to  Maggie  there  seemed  to  be  another  con- 
versation, flowing  wordlessly  between  them,  un- 
defined; she  could  not  stay  her  fancy's  endowing 
his  image  with  secret  thoughts  to  mate  with  hers. 
Occasionally  she  strove  to  check  them,  called 
herself  wicked,  she  had  no  right  to  fancy  thus; 
still,  it  did  not  harm,  she  said,  nobody  knew. 

When  Sam  came  they  were  merry.     Presently 


150  LITTLE  HOUSES 

he  would  take  Maggie  for  their  walk,  and  they 
would  return  for  supper.  It  was  the  best  evening 
of  the  week. 

Sam  had  many  bitter  hours  with  his  inner  self, 
suffering  hesitation,  doubts,  and  fears,  hopes  rising 
to  ecstasy,  hours  of  wild  recklessness  and  fierce 
repentance.  Maggie  saw  none  of  these  moods. 
To  her  he  was  courteous  and  devoted  as  nobody 
else  had  ever  been,  as  she  had  believed  nobody 
could  be,  out  of  books.  At  times  it  seemed  hardly 
possible  that  they  were  live  ordinary  folk  in  the 
fast-rushing  days  of  the  great  fin  de  siecle  which 
everybody  boasted  of;  rather  were  they  re- 
hearsing for  some  romantic  pageant,  in  olden 
style.  Maggie  felt  that  she  understood — these 
happy  conceits  were  Sam's — though  she  could  not 
explain;  her  gladness  was  outside  all  common 
life  she  had  ever  known.  She  asked  no  more  than 
the  continuance  of  this  delight  for  ever;  she  did 
not  think  she  was  asking  much.  To  Sam  their 
moments  together  were  all  his  wealth;  he  looked 
forward  ardently,  and  begrudged  every  precious 
second  lost.  When  he  had  kissed  Maggie  the  last 
"good  night"  he  was  lightsome  as  a  schoolboy  on 
his  way  down  the  hill,  a  merry  tune  jigging  in 
his  thoughts,  and  his  feet  keeping  time.  There 
was  no  beer  at  home  now — bread  and  cheese  and 
a  cup  of  milk  were  his  supper.  His  grandfather 
would  be  in  bed  long  ago.  Afterwards  he  would 
sit  with  his  pipe  until  the  fire  was  no  more  than  a 
dull  gleam  among  the  ash,  and  the  room  was  chilly. 
Wonderful  dreams  came  to  him  there  in  the  arm- 
chair. Only  hours  beyond,  sometimes  in  the  long, 
dragging  hours  before  the  morning,  he  would  wake 
and  lie  tossing  in  utter  wretchedness,  his  reason 
unable  to  explain  his  mood,  and  his  thoughts  as 
unnaturally  distorted  as  in  dream  visions. 

To  his  surprise  his  more  serious  friends  assured 


SPRINGTIME  151 

him  that  he  was  doing  wisely,  and  they  seemed  to 
be  pleased.  He  had  become  an  active  member  of 
the  Amalgamated  Society  of  Engineers,  and  he 
fancied  now  that  he  was  heard  more  attentively. 
He  was  a  lively  speaker,  and  his  influence  was 
growing  among  the  other  men.  Secretly  he 
hoped  that  he  might  become  an  official  of  the 
society  some  day — "an  easy  job,  with  good  money." 
At  the  works  he  was  asked  if  he  would  like  a  marble 
clock.  He  was  greatly  flattered  at  the  thought  of 
his  being  worthy  of  a  presentation. 

He  had  never  known  the  home-life  which  had 
always  been  commonplace  to  John  Allday,  and  the 
enjoyment  of  his  own  home  was  one  of  his  keenest 
anticipations.  Mrs.  Allday  laughed  at  his  eager 
questions  about  her  kitchen  and  her  household, 
but  she  and  Mr.  Allday  understood,  and  liked  him 
the  more.  When  he  bought  a  small  oak  table  for 
his  new  home,  the  first  piece  of  furniture  he  had 
ever  truly  called  his  own,  he  had  to  look  at  it  often 
to  gratify  his  new  pride,  until  Maggie  laughed  at 
him.  He  liked  to  see  her  sewing.  She  had  Jacky 
Onions  or  his  mother  with  her  sometimes  when 
he  called  on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  and  unless  Mrs. 
Onions  chatted,  he  would  sit  long  in  silence  watching 
Maggie's  deft  fingers,  and  marvelling  that  he  could 
in  so  little  find  so  great  content.  Maggie  would 
look  up  at  him  and  smile,  and  ask  anxiously, 
"You  don't  think  it's  wicked  of  me,  do  you,  sewing 
this  on  Sunday?  I  don't  get  any  time,  do  I?" 

His  grandfather  made  him  feel  the  sanctity  of 
his  coming  marriage. 

"I  often  say  to  myself,  sitting  here,  Thank 
God  he's  marrying  a  good  girl!'  Be  good  to  her, 
my  lad,  and  the  Lord  bless  you  both!  I've  seen 
you  grown  up  and  settled — it's  a  great  blessing. 
I'm  an  old  broken  servant  now,  going  to  the 
Master." 


152  LITTLE  HOUSES 

He  spoke  in  a  thin,  piping  voice,  with  no  tone 
gradation,  as  quietly  as  he  would  speak  of  the 
weather  or  any  other  banal  matter.  His  voice 
was  almost  expressionless.  He  was  entering  his 
ninetieth  year,  in  possession  of  all  his  faculties, 
walking  out  a  short  way  on  fine  days,  and  suffering 
no  malady  but  that  of  age,  but  he  was  becoming 
very  frail.  His  body  seemed  to  have  shrivelled,  his 
head  drooped  forward,  quivering  like  a  November 
leaf,  his  feet  dragged.  He  breathed  in  little  gasps, 
occasionally  putting  his  hand  to  his  breast,  as  though 
his  thoughts  had  to  be  given  solely  to  the  vital 
task  lest  he  might  forget,  and  die.  He  did  not 
read  his  Bible  often  now;  his  sight  was  dim,  and  his 
memory  preserved  well  his  favourite  passages. 
Hour  after  hour  he  sat  in  the  arm-chair  by  the  fire, 
staring  at  slow  visions,  and  stretching  out  his 
withered  hands  to  the  warmth.  He  was  only 
fully  roused  when  Maggie  came  with  Sam.  Then 
he  would  talk,  drawing  from  the  stock  of  his  long 
recollections.  Sam  was  awed  by  these  memories, 
told  after  being  stored  away  from  fifty  to  eighty 
years.  It  seemed  impossible  that  his  grandfather 
had  actually  seen  these  things,  so  extraordinarily 
different  from  those  to-day.  Tales  of  the  coaching 
days,  of  Waterloo,  of  the  Reform  Bill,  and  the 
Bristol  Riots,  and  the  cholera,  were  for  the  history 
books,  not  to  be  told  from  actual  memory  now. 
There  was  something  unnatural  in  them,  and  in 
their  narrator,  sitting  quietly  in  his  arm-chair, 
when  all  his  own  world  was  gone. 

Mothering  Sunday  came.  The  old  folk  who  had 
children  and  grandchildren  had  to  bake  cakes 
for  the  family  reunions.  The  days  slipped  away 
rapidly.  On  Palm  Sunday,  Maggie  Wheatley  went 
to  church  to  early  communion  at  eight  o'clock,  and 
took  a  bunch  of  daffodils  to  deck  her  mother's 
grave.  "This  week!"  She  said  it  to  herself 


SPRINGTIME  153 

often — she  had  waited  so  long,  yet  at  another 
moment  she  said  it  only  seemed  a  little  while.  She 
had  left  the  Royal  Emporium  so  that  she  might 
have  the  last  week  to  herself.  The  girls  had  given 
her  silver  teaspoons  and  sugar  tongs;  the  foreman 
had  made  the  presentation  ceremoniously  after 
the  shop  was  closed,  and  they  had  had  tea.  One  of 
the  girls  was  to  be  bridesmaid.  It  had  been  a  hard 
life  and  monotonous,  on  her  feet  so  many  hours 
a  day,  yet  with  their  present  they  had  given  Maggie 
a  pride  and  a  recollection  of  happiness  which,  though 
purely  visionary,  was  as  real  as  any  past  reality. 

The  time  was  very  near,  and  so  much  had  to  be 
done.  Mrs.  Onions  was  for  ever  in  and  out  to  help, 
especially  with  advice,  and  endless  explanations 
of  what  she  would  do  if  only  she  were  to  marry 
again.  "Not  as  I  wish  the  least  bit  o'  harm  in 
the  world  to  my  old  man  except  a  bit  more  common 
sense  now  and  again,  and  may  he  live  to  be  a 
hundred-an'-one  if  he  thinks  he'd  be  any  use  so 
long,  as  I  tell  him  many  a  time." 

Good  Friday  came,  a  wet,  squally  day.  Maggie 
looked  anxiously  at  the  sky.  The  milkman  said  he 
feared  the  weather  was  broken  for  the  holidays; 
he  was  having  no  holiday.  Mr.  Onions  said  that 
he  couldn't  say  what  it  would  be  to-morrow,  and 
he  explained  minutely  all  the  reasons  which  his 
experience  had  taught  him  on  a  day  like  this  to 
say  he  couldn't  say.  The  rag  and  bone  man  assured 
them  it  was  certain  to  be  wet,  but  Mrs.  Onions 
retorted  that  his  prophecy  was  more  a  sign  of  bad 
trade  than  of  bad  weather. 

"Don't  you  believe  it,  my  love,"  she  told  Maggie. 
"It'll  be  a  bit  showery,  perhaps,  like  married  life 
itself,  but  the  sun  will  shine  bright — you  call  me 
a  double  Dutchman  else.  You  don't  think  I've  had 
my  twinges  of  rheumatics  all  these  years  for  noth- 
ing do  you?" 


154  LITTLE  HOUSES 

Maggie  was  comforted. 

Sam  came  after  tea  to  take  her  to  Allday's.  He 
stayed  to  supper  there,  and  left  soon  afterwards. 
Maggie  took  him  to  the  front  door  to  let  him  out 
and  to  see  what  the  weather  was  like — it  took  a  long 
time  to  see  that.  When  she  returned,  and  Mrs. 
Allday  asked  her  if  it  was  fine,  she  said,  "Yes — no, 
no,  there's  a  drop  of  rain— -not  much."  And  they 
laughed  at  her  confusion. 

She  declared  she  could  not  sleep  if  she  went  to 
bed,  so  Mr.  Allday  went,  and  left  them  to  talk. 

It  happened  that  she  was  alone  with  John  for  a 
few  moments  before  they  said  "good  night." 

"How  many  hours  now,  Maggie?"  said  John. 
"It's  only  like  the  other  day  I  heard  you  were 
engaged.  Christmas  comes  round  quicker  every 
year,  I  think.  You  know  I  came  to  wish  you  a 
merry  Christmas — I'll  confess  I  very  nearly  forgot, 
and  I  was  angry  with  myself  for  it,  properly " 

"When  did  you  come?"  interrupted  Maggie. 

"Christmas  Day.  You  were  out — getting  en- 
gaged, I  suppose,"  said  he,  smiling.  "It  would  be 
in  the  evening,  about  half-past  seven." 

"Half-past  seven?"  said  Maggie,  eagerly. 

"Yes,  I  remember  the  time,  because  I  heard  the 
old  church  clock  strike  as  I  went  away.  I  meant 
to  tell  you,  only  your  engagement  put  it  out  of 
my  head — I  forgot." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  before  Maggie 
said,  very  quietly,  "Yes,  I  was  out." 

Upstairs  in  her  bedroom  afterwards  she  stood 
for  a  long  time  before  the  looking-glass,  staring 
listlessly  at  her  own  image.  When  at  length  she 
realized  what  she  was  doing  she  began  quickly  to 
undress,  only  to  find  herself  after  a  while  as  inactive 
as  before,  her  thoughts  pacing  heavily  to  and  fro, 
like  prisoners  in  a  narrow  yard.  One  vision  re- 
curred vividly — the  backyard  at  home,  and  herself 


SPRINGTIME  155 

groping  for  the  key  on  its  nail  behind  the  ivy,  while 
through  the  houses,  out  of  ordinary  sight,  she  saw 
a  figure  going  down  the  hill,  and  she  heard  the 
half -hour  chimed  solemnly  by  the  old  church  clock. 
Presently  she  was  angry  with  John  for  having  told 
her;  then  she  was  angry  with  him  for  not  having 
told  her  long  ago.  She  was  angry  with  herself, 
and  shameful  of  her  rebellious  thoughts.  She  did 
not  sleep. 

When  morning  came,  and  she  heard  the  lark 
singing  for  her  wedding-day,  her  thoughts  were 
wearied  to  exhaustion.  She  rose,  and  said  her 
prayers  very  slowly,  striving  to  be  earnest  in  every 
word  on  this  day.  Then  she  began  to  dress.  Mrs. 
Allday  caught  her,  and  ordered  her  into  bed  again, 
and  brought  her  a  cup  of  tea.  When  Mrs.  Allday 
returned  to  ask  her  if  she  would  like  more,  she 
found  her  asprawl  under  the  clothes,  fallen  asleep, 
like  a  tired  child. 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  CURATE 

THE  Reverend  Laurence  Pettigo,  B.A.,  Dublin, 
newly  appointed  curate  at  the  parish 
church,  walked  briskly  along  the  road 
from  Nickling  towards  Pedley  Hill.  He  was  a  tall, 
sturdy  young  man,  plump,  and  expecting  to  grow 
fat,  but  not  worried  at  the  prospect.  His  face  was 
ruddy,  and  his  expression  that  of  a  man  who 
looked  upon  the  world  and  found  it  good.  He 
was  occasionally  told  that  he  would  look  well  in 
farmer's  clothes,  and  among  his  recollections  for 
anecdote  was  the  confession  of  an  old  parishioner 
that  he  ought  to  wear  the  cassock  of  a  Roman 
Catholic  priest,  for  he  looked  so  well-fed  and  con- 
tented. "Health  before  doctrine"  was  his  motto; 
he  had  never  tried  asceticism,  and  scorned  it. 
To-day  he  carried  a  stout  ash  stick  and  swung  it 
as  he  walked.  He  was  well  pleased  with  himself. 
He  had  come  from  a  poor  parish  in  Liverpool, 
and  to  come  here  was  a  pleasant  change.  He  saw 
no  squalid  poverty,  and  the  poor  were  for  the  most 
part  without  any  of  that  meanness  which  makes 
for  misery  and  crime.  This  was  an  easy  parish, 
offering  great  opportunities.  He  liked  the  little 
mission  church  at  Nickling;  he  was  enthusiastic; 
he  had  been  well  received ;  and  he  was  sure  already 


158  LITTLE  HOUSES 

of  his  progress.  His  elder  brother  was  a  vicar 
in  the  North  of  England,  well  married;  his  lady 
had  brought  him  a  respectable  fortune  and  an 
incumbency.  Laurence  Pettigo  saw  no  reason  why 
Fortune  should  not  favour  him  equally.  He  was 
not  in  the  Church  merely  to  benefit  from  a  good 
position  won,  or  to  find  a  wife  with  riches — oh, 
no,  he  was  satisfied  in  his  own  self  that  his  motives 
were  not  of  that  sort.  He  had  read  "The  Northern 
Farmer,"  and  hoped  to  be  saved  from  the  folly 
of  both  father  and  son.  He  had  entered  the  Church 
because  his  brother  had  entered  the  Church, 
because  his  uncle  had  entered,  and  to  please  his 
mother  too — his  father  was  dead.  Being  in,  he 
discovered  a  pleasure  and  enthusiasm  in  his  work, 
motives  of  good  enough  growth.  The  theories  of 
Darwin  and  of  the  advanced  materialists  had  not 
touched  him  vitally;  he  had  laughed  at  the  efforts 
of  up-to-date  clerics  to  reconcile  science  and  the 
Bible.  "I'm  a  parson,  not  a  polemic" — that  was 
his  description  of  himself.  His  parents  had  been 
churchgoers — he  had  been  trained  to  be  a  church- 
goer, and  he  saw  other  families  in  their  thousands 
like  his  own.  The  Church  had  filled,  and  still 
filled  a  part  of  both  private  and  national  life,  and 
it  had  become  so  because  it  supplied  a  need.  It 
was  not  necessary  now  to  consider  whether  it  had 
created  the  need  which  it  supplied.  To  continue 
in  its  vital  work  it  must  still  supply  a  need,  not 
necessarily  the  same  in  detail.  Even  the  irreligious 
spent  a  part  of  their  time  in  denying  religion, 
so  religion  occupied  their  thoughts.  The  Reverend 
Laurence  Pettigo  believed  that  religion  might  well 
occupy  one's  thoughts,  but  essentially  it  should 
occupy  the  body,  providing  an  incessant  activity 
in  social  life,  and  pleasures  especially;  that  was 
the  essence  of  his  belief  in  his  mission.  And  as 
he  was  a  healthy,  active  man,  without  subtlety, 


THE  CURATE  159 

fond  of  sport  and  company,  fond  of  a  good  joke,  a 
pipe,  and  a  glass  of  beer,  he  had  already  gained 
enough  success  to  justify  his  attitude.  His  vicar 
in  Liverpool  had  been  a  man  like  himself,  busily 
comforting  the  poor  of  his  parish,  and  working  that 
they  might  enjoy  a  little  of  life's  sunshine,  and 
not  harassing  them  with  doctrines. 

The  vicar  of  Pedley  Hill  was  not  loved. 
"Curates  come,  and  curates  go,  but  I  go  on  for 
ever."  The  joke  was  old  now,  and  everybody 
knew  it;  still  its  flavour  was  as  rich  as  ever.  The 
vicar  was  a  gentleman — no  one  denied  that,  and  he 
allowed  no  doubts  to  exist.  He  was  also  an  auto- 
crat. His  duty  was  to  command  others  in  theirs, 
so  sure  was  he  of  his  own  fulfilling  of  the  strict 
law.  Thus  he  was  revered  by  the  unflinching 
devout,  and  heartily  disliked  by  everybody  else. 
Those  easygoing  creatures  who  would  go  to  church 
occasionally  as  the  whim  came  over  them,  never 
went  to  the  parish  church.  The  headmaster 
of  the  parish  church  schools  did  not  go;  they 
had  quarrelled,  and  it  was  one  of  the  vicar's 
bitterest  grievances  that  he  had  failed  to  get  him 
dismissed,  as  it  was  the  schoolmaster's  grievance 
that  no  amount  of  public  feeling  whatever  had  the 
slightest  chance  of  getting  the  vicar  dismissed. 
The  vicar  had  no  hypocrisy;  he  was  hard  on 
others — he  was  hard  on  himself — his  God  was 
jealous,  hard  on  the  world.  He  did  not,  however, 
preach  those  doctrines  of  eternal  torment  so  be- 
loved of  the  extreme  Puritans;  his  plea  was  for 
devotion — the  devotion  of  a  slave  to  a  just  master. 
His  church  re-echoed  feebly  with  the  thin  voice 
of  a  congregation  dwindling.  The  old  doctrines 
were  going  out  of  people's  hearts;  he  knew  these 
things,  and  read  in  them  portents  of  a  bitter  future. 
Suffering  in  his  age,  he  feared  that  Fin  de  Sidclc 
might  presage  Fin  dn  Monde.  He  had  never 


160  LITTLE  HOUSES 

failed  in  duty,  and  he  was  exasperated  that  he  had 
not  the  power  to  compel  the  recalcitrants  to  come 
again  into  the  fold.  Centuries  before  he  would 
have  demanded  a  charter  of  pillory,  and  gallows, 
and  would  have  used  them  ruthlessly  to  save 
his  people's  souls.  He  was  a  good  man,  perfect  in 
integrity,  chivalrous  to  ladies,  a  staunch  friend 
and  a  hard  enemy,  though  without  malice,  and  his 
wife  had  been  devoted  and  submissive  all  her 
married  life.  There  were  always  fresh  flowers  on 
her  grave.  One  only  of  the  great  virtues  he  had 
not — sympathy.  He  had  never  doubted  himself, 
He  had  never  learnt  th.  \he  path  to  the  hills  of 
greatness  is  over  the  plain^  of  kindness,  and  doubts, 
and  self-examination. 

The  new  curate  as  yet  only  knew  the  vicar  as 
a  fine,  rather  dogmatic  old  gentleman  of  the  old 
school.  Himself,  he  saw  the  Church  of  to-day 
growing  to  a  great  active  Church  of  to-morrow; 
he  did  not  know  that  the  vicar  saw  it  already  full 
grown,  an  edifice  o.'ttt  not  on  shifting  human 
hearts,  but  on  the  inanimate  rocks,  defying  wind 
and  tide. 

As  he  walked,  the  curate  hummed  a  rapturous 
little  air,  an  impromptu  of  Schubert,  which  he 
played  with  variations  on  the  piano.  He  had 
some  knowledge  of  the  arts.  He  also  played  the 
banjo  and  sang  with  his  face  blacked.  He  was  a 
poor  performer  on  the  banjo,  though  much  prouder 
of  it  than  of  his  prowess  at  the  pianoforte,  because 
it  gave  more  pleasure  to  other  folk. 

It  was  a  frosty  December  afternoon,  in  the  year 
1896.  By  the  roadside,  here  at  hand,  the  bare 
trees  were  stiff  and  ragged.  On  the  distant  slopes 
they  were  grouped  in  vague  masses  in  the  haze. 
There  had  been  heavy  rains,  and  the  low  meadows 
by  the  road  lay  under  flood  water,  dull  grey,  to 
be  frozen  soon  for  skating  if  the  frost  held.  A 


THE  CURATE  161 

few  starlings  straggled  overhead;  the  main  flocks 
had  already  gone  in  clouds  like  dark  puffs  of  smoke. 
A  goods  train  on  the  embankment  against  the  hill 
slope  was  like  a  toy,  fleecy  tufts  shooting  up  from 
the  locomotive  and  dissolving  very  slowly  in  the 
air. 

The  curate  stood  a  while  to  look,  and  a  vague 
emotion  stirred  gently  in  him.  The  afternoon 
was  beautiful,  because  he  was  singularly  content. 
The  sun  was  down  below  the  dim  western  haze, 
and,  radiating,  there  were  grey  clouds  drawn  in 
bands,  touched  with  pale  red  and  pink,  dull  gold, 
and  primrose.  An  elm  rising  from  the  hedge 
stood  against  the  sky  in  black  patternless  lace, 
with  twigs  innumerable.  Not  a  leaf  whispered 
in  the  dried  beech — the  frost  held  all  silent;  only 
in  a  garden  past  the  low  wall  a  blackbird  lurked 
among  the  laurels,  and  rustled  the  leaves.  Far 
away,  at  a  great  height,  a  flock  of  peewits  was 
making  for  the  south.  A  chill  blue  mist  was  bring- 
ing the  early  darkness. 

Nobody  was  near  to  see  the  curate  smiling;  no- 
body saw  his  keen  glance  of  anticipated  joy  when 
he  turned  away  from  the  valley  and  glanced  up 
at  the  Kingsnortons'  house,  Ridgeway,  his  present 
destination.  Miss  Kingsnorton  and  her  parents 
had  been  among  his  first  acquaintances  here.  When 
he  had  called  he  had  met  her  sister  Barbara.  Sur- 
prise and  admiration  had  been  his  first  emotions. 
In  a  few  moments  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  was 
more  than  gracious — soon  she  was  merry  too — and 
at  length  he  had  gone  away  sure  of  her  favour, 
and  proud  that  he  should  have  won  so  much  and 
so  easily.  He  wanted  fervidly  to  succeed  here. 
Time  after  time  he  found  her  image  dominating 
his  fancy,  its  presence  not  to  be  accounted  for,  and 
insistent,  though  not  alarming.  She  was  witty 
and  talented;  he  had  heard  that  she  was  an 


162  LITTLE  HOUSES 

elocutionist,  and  might  have  become  a  clever 
actress ;  she  had  known  musicians,  poets,  stage  folk, 
in  London.  If  he  could  enlist  her  services  in  his 
parish  work,  then  his  success  would  be  a  triumph, 
and  he  counted  already  on  her  help. 

She  had  been  engaged  to  a  Mr.  Hurst,  whom  she 
had  known  in  London.  The  engagement  was 
broken  off  now,  he  knew,  and  he  might  have  heard 
many  rumours,  had  he  cared  to  listen.  Her  fiance 
had  an  aunt  in  the  district  here,  an  eccentric  old 
lady,  some  ten  miles  or  more  away,  in  a  big,  lonely 
house.  Pettigo  would  not  listen  to  gossip.  It 
was  sufficient  for  him  to  know  that  the  engage- 
ment was  ended — he  was  pleased;  he  did  not  con- 
sider the  source  of  his  pleasure. 

He  was  shown  on  his  arrival  into  the  drawing- 
room,  and  Barbara  rose  to  greet  him.  He  was 
unaccountably  self-conscious,  and  explained  badly 
that  he  had  called  to  see  her  sister  about  the  music 
at  the  mission  church. 

When  he  reacted  the  scene  in  fancy  afterwards, 
he  only  remembered  a  fragment  of  all  they  talked 
about. 

"I  hope  I  shan't  make  myself  a  nuisance  by 
asking  for  help — I'll  ask  a  lot,"  he  had  said.  "It's 
the  talented  people  of  a  parish,  you  know,  when 
they  have  the  right  zeal,  who  make  all  the  difference 
in  church  life." 

"Marian  certainly  is  interested  in  the  little 
church." 

"And  are  you?" 

"Well — not  uninterested." 

"That's  giving  me  hope." 

Then  her  mother  had  come  in,  and  they  had 
given  him  tea. 

"Have  you  been  showing  Mr.  Pettigo  Marian's 
book?"  said  Mrs.  Kingsnorton. 

"No,  I  haven't." 


THE  CURATE  163 

The  book  was  new,  just  published — thick,  creamy 
paper,  with  wide  margins,  and  the  title  in  gilt  on 
a  rough  blue  cover: 

SELVALLEY  RHYMES 

BY 

MARIAN  HORDEN 

"Horden  is  my  maiden  name,  you  know,  Mr. 
Pettigo,"  said  Mrs.  Kingsnorton  proudly.  "The 
Hordens  have  been  in  the  county  for  centuries." 

The  authoress  had  come  just  as  he  was  leaving, 
and  had  blushed  at  his  compliments. 

When  he  walked  towards  the  town,  on  his  way  to 
the  vicarage,  the  least  observant  could  see  that  he 
was  a  happy  man. 

"A  very  pleasant  young  gentleman,"  Mrs. 
Kingsnorton  said  when  he  was  gone.  "What  a 
pity  he  won't  stay." 

"He  may  be  the  last  straw  which  breaks  the  old 
camel's  back,"  suggested  Marian. 

"My  money's  on  the  young  parson,"  said 
Barbara. 

Mrs.  Kingsnorton  was  comfortably  shocked. 

The  curate  stopped  in  High  Street  at  the  book- 
seller's. The  windows  were  decked  with  boxes 
of  notepaper  and  envelopes,  dish-papers,  jars  and 
penny  bottles  of  ink,  sealing  wax,  a  dictionary, 
children's  picture-books,  a  novel  by  Guy  Boothby, 
several  of  Dickens'  works  in  cheap  edition,  the 
"Strand  Magazine,"  and  tin  boxes  of  water  colours. 
The  best  bookseller  in  Pedley  Hill  could  not  make 
a  living  out  of  books  alone — wisely  he  did  not 
try. 

He  had  a  copy  of  "Selvalley  Rhymes." 

"I  took  a  big  risk  in  stocking  it,"  he  explained. 


i<54  LITTLE  HOUSES 

"I've  been  quite  astonished,  the  number  of  folks 
coming  in  and  buying  it.  It's  Miss  Kingsnorton 
being  so  well  known." 

"Not  the  value  of  the  book?"  suggested  the 
curate. 

"Well,  sir,  I  don't  know — I  haven't  read  it.  It's 
poetry,  I  see." 

The  curate  laughed.  He  would  not  have  the 
book  wrapped  up,  and  as  soon  as  he  was  in  the 
street  he  opened  it  to  read.  He  had  read  very 
little  poetry  quite  modern,  and  now  he  was  charmed. 
This  might  not  be  great  poetry — it  probably  was 
not  more  than  mediocre  verse,  he  told  himself, 
yet  it  pleased  him  in  a  way  he  could  not  define, 
the  real  way,  he  said.  There  seemed  to  him  to 
be  a  humanity  and  primitive  simplicity  in  its 
inspiration,  like  a  child's  happiness  in  the  world's 
new  things,  like  a  fresh  breeze  from  the  hills. 
Barbara  Kingsnorton's  sister  had  written  this — 
Barbara  herself  had  helped,  maybe.  He  would 
rather  have  believed  it  to  be  her  work. 

Near  the  Bullen  he  had  to  cease  reading.  He 
had  had  two  collisions,  and  the  traffic  was  busy. 

He  stood  a  while  to  watch  the  market,  for  he 
loved  a  crowd  of  people.  By  the  "Bull"  he  helped 
a  poor  old  woman  into  the  Selbridge  bus,  handed 
her  heavy  basket  after  her,  and  laughed  at  her 
stammered  blessing.  A  fat  man,  merry  after 
pints  of  ale,  called  in  approbation,  "Now,  that  is 
a  parson!"  The  curate  could  not  avoid  hearing. 
He  had  not  helped  the  old  woman  for  that  sort  of 
flattery — nevertheless  it  was  very  pleasing. 

A  little  crowd  was  gathering  at  the  corner  of 
Castle  Street.  The  curate  pushed  his  way  forward 
with  the  curious,  and  saw  a  tiny  scared  child,  with 
eyes  red  from  weeping,  and  mouth  open  aghast, 
before  so  many  staring  faces. 

"He  can't  talk.     Where's  the  pleece?" 


THE  CURATE  165 

One  after  another  spoke,  arguing  and  pushing 
until  the  child's  mouth  drooped,  and  he  sobbed 
again. 

"It's  Bloom's  little  lad  up  Castle  Street,  up  the 
top,  past  the  church." 

Nobody  was  going  up  Castle  Street  to-day — 
everybody  was  too  busy.  It  was  scandalous  to  go 
and  lose  a  child  like  this.  What  was  the  pleece 
thinking  about?  The  infant  wept  almost  unnoticed 
in  the  middle  of  the  crush,  and  many  were  disap- 
pointed because  it  wasn't  a  fight  or  somebody 
drunk  to  make  them  laugh. 

The  curate  pushed  to  the  front 

'Til  take  him.    Come  along,  little  man!" 

He  picked  up  the  child,  and  strode  off,  the 
crowd  parting  to  let  him  pass.  He  was  a  bachelor, 
but  he  had  carried  children  for  tired  mothers  on 
church  outings,  and  he  was  fond  of  children.  In 
fifty  yards  the  child  had  ceased  to  cry — in  a 
hundred  he  was  beginning  to  enjoy  himself.  ^ 
pennyworth  of  sweets  brought  him  happiness, 
and  his  little  hand  was  outstretched  eagerly, 
pointing  out  the  dogs  and  horses  for  his  new  friend 
to  notice. 

Reward  was  not  delayed.  The  curate  had  the 
good  fortune  to  address  himself  to  Mrs.  Onions, 
who  was  on  her  way  up  the  hill  after  a  busy  day 
spent  in  the  market  to  fill  a  small  basket  with  food 
and  a  huge  curiosity  with  information. 

"Bless  my  life,  I  should  think  I  do  know — I 
ought  to.  You  don't  mean  to  say  as  you're  acarryin' 
of  that  child  home?  Lost,  was  he?  You  little 
tinker;  what  yer  been  up  to,  getting  lost?  He 
was  left  with  my  grandchild — my  daughter  Lizzie's 
baby,  and  she'd  meet  somebody,  I  know.  You 
never  see  such  a  tongue  as  that  girl's  got.  I'm 
acoming  up.  Mrs.  Bloom's  my  next-door  neigh- 
bour, an'  a  yery  respectable  and  nice  neighbour 


i66  LITTLE  HOUSES 

she  is,  an'  it's  me  says  it.     I  have  had  neighbours 
in  my  time." 

She  explained  to  Maggie  afterwards:  "We  were 
talking  away  as  free — I  took  to  him  in  a  twink, 
and  so  did  your  little  John.  Oh,  my  dear,  he's  a 
nice  feller." 

She  did  not  add  that  she  had  watched  the  house, 
herself  from  the  kitchen  window  to  watch  the 
back  door,  and  her  daughter  in  the  parlour  to  keep 
her  eye  on  the  front,  so  that  she  might  go  round 
and  hear  all  the  news  from  Maggie  as  soon  as  he 
was  gone. 

"He  was  very  nice,"  said  Maggie.  "I  should 
have  liked  to  offer  him  a  cup  of  tea,  only  the  place 
is  all  in  such  a  mess,  me  being  ill  two  days.  Wasn't 
it  good  of  him  to  bring  the  child  home!  It  w 
wonderful  how  John  took  to  him,  he's  so  shy 
with  strangers — held  his  little  hands  out,  he  didn't 
want  him  to  go." 

She  turned  to  the  boy. 

"Yes,  you — you  young  mischief !"  she  said. 

The  child  laughed  merrily,  and  ran  into  the 
corner  behind  the  sofa.  When  he  peeped  out  he 
was  disappointed  that  his  mother  was  not  playing 
with  him. 

Maggie  was  nursing  the  baby,  who  was  very 
cross,  cutting  her  first  tooth. 

"I  was  ashamed  of  the  place,"  said  Maggie.  "I 
never  dreamed  of  seeing  anybody  like  that  come 
in.  Sam  quarrelled  with  the  last  curate,  you  know, 
and  he  stopped  coming.  I  was  very  sorry — but  he 
wasn't  a  nice  man." 

She  stopped  suddenly,  and  then  darted  across  the 
room  to  the  child. 

"Come  out  of  it,  you  young  Turk!  Good 
heavens!  Look  what  he's  done — all  the  black- 
lead  things!" 

He  had  opened  the  cupboard,  and  had  a  dirty 


THE  CURATE  167 

brush  in  one  hand,  and  a  black  rag  in  the  other. 
When  he  saw  his  mother's  anger,  he  sat  down  and 
howled. 

Maggie  shut  the  cupboard,  and  strove  to  hush  the 
wailing  baby  in  her  arms. 

"Now  behave  yourself!"  she  commanded  him. 
"I  never  saw  the  like  of  that  child  for  mischief." 

"It's  health,  nature,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Onions. 
"You've  been  just  the  same,  I've  heard  your  mother 
say  many  a  time." 

"I  dare  say,"  said  Maggie.  "All  the  same, 
it's  too  much  for  a  woman  to  look  after  children 
and  dress  'em,  keep  the  home  nice,  and  herself 
and  be  a  good  partner  to  her  husband,  with  a  mere 
nothing  of  wages  coming  in.  It  can't  be  done.  It 
isn't  fair." 

"When  you've  had  six " 

"I'll  die  first!     It's  hard  enough  now." 

"Ah,  my  dear,  I  used  to  feel  like  that,"  said 
Mrs.  Onions  kindly.  "Many  an  hour's  crying  I've 
had,  and  many  a  time  I've  said  I'd  drown  myself. 
And  I  just  went  on." 

"Only  another  few  shillings  a  week,"  said 
Maggie  bitterly;  "money  to  afford  some  help, 
a  bit  of  rest,  a  chance  to  go  out  with  my  hus- 
band  " 

"I  know,  I  know — I've  said  all  that.  You've  got 
to  submit,  first  or  last." 

Maggie  sat  down  and  sobbed.  Mrs.  Onions 
patted  her  shoulder. 

"We've  had  to  go  through  it,  thousands  of  us.  .  .  ." 

"Is  that  your  book?"  she  said,  interrupting 
herself. 

Maggie  was  roused. 

"No — it  must  be  the  curate's.  He  had  a  book 
like  that.  He's  left  it." 

Mrs.  Onions  looked  at  it,  and  exclaimed, 
"Poetry!"  Then  she  put  it  down  as  though 


i68  LITTLE  HOUSES 

It  were  hot.  Mr.  Onions  was  shouting  "Missis!" 
in  the  yard,  so  she  had  to  go. 

Maggie  prepared  to  wash  up  the  tea  things. 
She  wanted  to  have  the  place  neat  before  the 
curate  could  come  back  for  his  book.  The  baby 
was  sleepy,  and  lay  quiet  when  her  mother  had  put 
her  in  the  cradle.  The  boy  played  with  a  box  of 
bricks  on  the  kitchen  hearthrug;  he  was  safe  for 
five  minutes,  or  even  more,  if  Fortune  were 
kind. 

The  washing  up  was  finished,  and  Maggie  was 
swilling  the  dishcloth  in  the  tin  bowl  under  the 
tap  when  John  Allday  came  to  the  back  door.  At 
the  sound  of  footsteps  Maggie  thought  it  was  the 
curate.  The  blind  was  not  down,  and  she  saw 
John  pass  the  window.  She  was  trembling  when 
she  opened  the  door. 

"I've  brought  the  book  back  Sam  lent  me,"  said 
John. 

She  invited  him  in. 

"Didn't  he  say  you  could  keep  it?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  but  it's  no  good  to  me.  It's  true  enough 
what's  in  it,  mind  you,  so  far  as  it  goes.  A  lot  of 
us  do  have  hard  lives,  through  no  fault  of  our  own. 
I  can't  exactly  say  as  I  have — you  do,  I  know. 
There's  something  far  wrong  with  our  social  sys- 
tem, government,  church,  and  all.  But  it  ain't  this'll 
put  it  right." 

"That's  what  I  say,"  said  Maggie. 

She  was  thinking  that  John  had  come  to  return 
a  book  which  he  need  not  have  brought.  Sam  was 
gone  to  see  the  football  match  at  Selbridge.  John 
had  known  surely  that  Sam  had  gone;  he  must 
have  guessed  he  would  be  out.  Then  his  pleasure 
in  coming  must  be  all  in  seeing  her. 

"It's  all  very  well  a  man  having  ideals  for  him- 
self," said  John.  "He's  bound  to  have,  of  course, 
and  the  better  they  are  the  better  he  is,  but  he 


THE  CURATE  169 

can't  make  ideals  for  other  folks,  and  then  make 
them  change  their  own  for  'em." 

"That's  how  you  should  talk  to  Sam,"  said 
Maggie. 

"I  do,  but  you  know " 

He  shook  his  head  and  smiled.  Maggie  smiled, 
though  only  at  her  own  happy  excitation. 

"It  isn't  ideals  he's  after  to-day — it's  football," 
said  she. 

The  little  boy  had  risen  from  play,  and  was  pull- 
ing at  the  knees  of  John's  trousers,  trying  to  attract 
his  attention.  John  patted  his  head. 

"Come  away,  John,  don't  be  a  worry !"  said  Mag- 
gie. "It's  your  bedtime  in  a  minute  or  two." 

The  child  clung  to  Jol\  '"•  knees,  and  he  picked 
him  up. 

"Ah,  your  Uncle  John  spoils  you!" 

Maggie  smiled,  and  the  boy  laughed  with  delight. 

"It's  no  good  standing  here  in  the  cold.  Come 
in  the  sitting-room.  The  water's  on  to  bath  the 
children." 

Maggie  turned  out  the  gas.  Mrs.  Onions  went 
away  from  the  bedroom  window  next  door — there 
was  no  more  to  see. 

The  baby  woke  and  began  to  whimper.  Maggie 
took  her  out  of  the  cradle,  and  put  on  a  big  apr6n 
to  nurse  her. 

"You've  got  your  hands  full,  Maggie,"  said 
John. 

"God  knows!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  could  cry 
many  a  time,  the  way  I  have  to  keep  on  day  and 
night,  the  house  to  keep  clean,  meals  to  cook,  and 
wash  up,  and  these  two  to  look  after.  I  daren't 
take  my  eyes  off  that  young  mischief — and  baby 
has  me  up  twice  every  night,  and  all  day  on — no 
peace.  I  can't  wear  my  best  boots,  my  feet  are 
swollen  so.  You  can't  imagine." 

"I    can,"    said    John,    in    sympathy.      "You've 


1 70  LITTLE  HOUSES 

taught  me.  I'll  admit  I  had  no  idea  before,  al- 
though I've  heard  mother  say  many  a  time." 

"Nobody  has  any  idea  what  torments  they  were 
as  children  till  they  have  some  of  their  own. 
Oh,  it's  cruel!  And  they're  such  helpless  little 
creatures,  you  can't  help  loving  'em.  If  I  could 
only  have  a  nurse-girl,  a  girl  just  left  school,  to 
relieve  me  an  hour  or  so  a  day — it  wouldn't  cost 
much — but  we're  so  poor." 

"That's  the  worst  of  it,  Maggie.  You  mustn't  be 
poor  in  this  world — it's  worse  than  being  wicked." 

"That's  what  Sam  says.  We're  going  to  change 
all  that,  he  says,  the  future's  going  to  be  wonderful 
— marvellous  things  in  the  twentieth  century — 
oh,  yes!  But  it's  now,  I  tell  him,  I  want  a  bit  of 
help  and  money — and  he  doesn't  try  to  make  an 
extra  shilling.  He's  doing  greater  things,  he's 
always  telling  me.  Humanity  be  hanged,  if  I'm 
not  humanity!" 

"Sam's  an  idealist,  a  dreamer.  He  wants  to  do 
good " 

"Except  at  home,"  said  Maggie  bitterly. 

"No,  no!"  protested  John.  "Don't  be  too  hard 
on  him,  Maggie." 

"I  didn't  mean  that,"  she  said,  rebuked;  "only 
it  is  hard." 

"It  is." 

The  boy  grew  restive.  He  wanted  to  be  played 
with.  Presently  he  began  to  whimper,  and  Maggie 
threatened  him  with  immediate  bed.  John  pleaded 
for  him,  and  went  down  on  hands  and  knees  to 
play  with  him  on  the  hearthrug. 

Maggie  interrupted  them. 

"Do  you  know  the  new  curate?" 

"Not  to  speak  to  yet,"  said  John.  "I've  seen 
him." 

Maggie  explained,  and  told  the  story  of  his  bring- 
ing the  boy  home. 


THE  CURATE  171 

"This  is  the  book.  I  put  it  on  the  mantelpiece 
out  of  that  gentleman's  road." 

John  stood  up  and  took  the  book. 

"Why,  it's  Miss  Kingsnorton's  new  book  of 
poems!"  he  exclaimed  enthusiastically.  "I've  heard 
a  lot  about  it — I  was  going  to  buy  one." 

The  child  was  annoyed  at  his  play  being  stopped. 
John  pushed  him  away  gently. 

"It's  all  about  the  place  here — Selvalley,  you 
see.  Listen:  Tie  Fair,'  'The  Bullen,'  The 
Bristol  Road' — Oh,  I  must  get  this.  Ha!  Here's 
another — The  Fat  Lady/  Why  that's  the  very 
one  we  saw  at  the  Fair — you  remember.  Sam, 
and  you,  and  me — you  know — the  Miss  Kings- 
nortons  were  in  the  tent." 

"I  remember,"  said  Maggie  quietly. 

"Is  the  curate  coming  back  for  it,  do  you  think? 
I'll  take  it,  shall  I?  He's  in  lodgings  in  Nickling. 
I  can  soon  find  him,  I  know." 

Maggie  smiled  at  his  excitement. 

"I've  been  waiting  to  tell  you,"  she  said.  "He 
wants  to  start  a  social  club,  and  all  sorts  of  things. 
I  think  he's  the  very  man  for  it.  He  was  asking 
me,  and  I  told  him  to  come  to  you." 

"Me?"  said  John,  surprised. 

"Yes.  You  are  the  one  to  help  him.  I  should 
think  he'll  call  and  see  you  about  it." 

"You  liavc  let  me  in  for  something,"  said  John, 
smiling.  "Was  there  anything  else  you  were 
telling  him?" 

"Only  about  you,"  said  Maggie,  and  John 
saw  that  she  was  blushing.  "You  had  better  take 
the  book." 

She  let  him  out  of  the  house  by  the  front  door. 
They  stood  talking  a  while;  she  told  him  more 
about  the  curate's  visit,  and  he  asked  eager  questions. 
The  baby  whimpered.  The  boy  struggled  to 
get  into  the  street,  and  cried  when  he  was  held 


172  LITTLE  HOUSES 

back — he  became  so  naughty  that  she  smacked  him, 
and  he  stood  sobbing  quietly  to  himself.  John  for- 
got him  until  he  was  going;  then  he  took  out  a 
penny  for  him. 

"No,  you  shouldn't!"  said  Maggie. 

John  laughed.  The  child  was  happy  again, 
and  stood  with  his  mother.  Maggie  held  his  hand, 
and  they  both  waved  to  "Uncle  John"  going  away. 
When  he  was  gone  Maggie  hurried  to  prepare  the 
baths.  They  had  to  wear  clean  clothes  to-morrow — 
her  husband's  supper  had  to  be  cooked — there  was 
no  end  to  her  work.  She  sang  nursery  rhymes 
to  amuse  the  children — she  was  happy,  and  she  was 
not  often  happy;  she  said  she  hadn't  time. 


CHAPTER  II 

"SELVALLEY  RHYMES" 

JOHN  forgot  Maggie  and  her  troubles  as  soon 
as  the  front  door  had  shut.     His  thoughts 
were  for  the  book  under  his  arm,  and  for  Miss 
Kingsnorton  and  her  sister.     He  grew  impatient 
to  read  more,  and  at  length  he  stopped  by  a  bright 
shop  window  and  opened  the  book. 

Too  old — not  fat  enough — I  know — 

I'm  twenty  stone,  if  I'm  a  bit. 
Shiv'ring  in  the  cold  draught — but  no, 
Not  worth  a  penny,  and  you'll  go 

And  grumble,  while  I  smile  and  sit, 
And  sit  and  smile  in  hideous  din, 
And  smells  of  turf  and  paraffin, 

And  look  to  be  enjoying  it. 

The  first  stanza  delighted  him.  He  saw  it  all 
again  so  well — the  tent,  the  smoky  lights,  the  Fat 
Lady  on  her  dais,  Barbara  smiling  mischievously. 
When  he  came  to  the  first  market  stalls  at  the 
bottom  of  the  hill  the  smell  from  a  paraffin  lamp 
increased  the  vividness  of  his  memory's  vision. 
The  poem  was  the  best  in  the  book,  for  sure. 
It  was  splendid — he  had  been  there  in  the  tent — 
he  remembered.  He  had  not  read  any  of  the 
other  poems  through — no  doubt  they  were  good, 
but  this  was  the  best,  unless  there  were  a  poem 
with  Barbara  in  it.  He  understood  why  people 

173 


174  LITTLE  HOUSES 

were  talking  so  much  about  the  book:  it  was  about 
places  they  knew,  and  people  they  knew — of  course 
it  was  good.  He  made  a  great  resolution  to  buy 
the  book  and  read  every  poem.  He  had  never 
bought  a  book  of  poems  in  his  life — nobody  did, 
except  for  birthday  presents  to  young  ladies,  or 
to  be  given  away  as  Sunday  school  prizes.  Yet 
he  loved  the  woods  and  the  fields,  the  year's  ever- 
changing  beauties,  and  music  stirred  him  deeply. 
It  had  never  occurred  to  him  that  every  one  is 
in  some  measure  a  poet  in  feeling,  though  not  in 
expression,  and  that  poetry,  like  music,  is  the  voice 
of  those  great  emotions  which  make  glad  the  heart. 
He  had  always  admired  it,  from  a  distance,  as  a 
sort  of  clever  verbal  jugglery.  He  did  not  know 
if  this  were  fine  poetry;  he  remembered  that  he 
knew  little,  and  declared  that  it  was  good  enough 
for  him — he  would  never  demand  better. 

John  had  changed  greatly  in  his  inner  self  during 
the  last  eighteen  months.  After  his  jump  forward 
from  obscurity  he  had  expected  to  make  other 
jumps,  and  his  progress  had  become  so  slow  that 
he  seemed  not  to  be  moving.  Disappointment  came, 
and  impatience,  and  intermittent  melancholy.  His 
position  at  Binnses  was  improved,  and  he  had  more 
money — still,  he  was  not  satisfied;  he  could  not 
become  foreman  unless  the  foreman  died,  fifteen 
years  hence,  or  more,  probably — an  eternity.  The 
glee  singers  had  no  season  this  winter:  glee  were 
going  out  of  fashion.  One  of  the  party  had 
left  the  place,  and  another  had  been  tempted  into 
Selbridge  Choral  Society.  John  had  lost  heart  in 
his  singing.  He  refused  to  sing  at  smoking  concerts, 
and  he  could  not  compete  with  the  boomed  pro- 
fessionals brought  to  Selbridge.  His  investment 
in  the  brick  works  was  more  and  more  successful 
each  year,  and  took  up  much  of  his  time,  for  his 
father  was  not  so  active  now.  He  might  some 


"SELV ALLEY  RHYMES"  175 

day  leave  Binnses,  and  live  by  that  and  by  the 
scrap-iron  business,  which  was  improving  too. 
For  a  while  he  had  had  high  hopes  and  aspirations. 
His  father  and  mother  spent  hours  in  surmising 
what  had  caused  his  subsequent  despondency.  His 
mother's  favourite  theory  was  no  nearer  truth  than 
the  choosing  of  an  effect  when  seeking  cause. 

His  father  confessed  he  did  not  know  what  to 
think.  During  the  last  weeks,  however,  his  mother 
declared  he  was  more  like  his  old  cheerful  self,  and 
they  were  comforted. 

Not  even  the  most  fantastic  gossip  associated 
John  Allday  in  any  way  with  Barbara  Kings- 
norton's  engagement  to  Mr.  Hurst.  Instinctively 
John  disliked  the  man  from  the  moment  he  first 
saw  him  at  Benlows'  on  Christmas  Day,  three 
years  before.  He  was  too  fine  a  gentleman,  too 
supercilious.  John  felt  rebelliously  that  he  was 
too  aggressive  in  his  superiority.  He  knew  very 
little  of  him.  He  lived  in  London,  travelled,  never 
seemed  to  work,  and  often  came  to  stay  with  his 
aunt  and  drove  over  to  Pedley  Hill,  to  the  "Bull" 
at  first,  and  then  to  the  Kingsnortons'.  John 
refused  to  believe  that  Barbara  had  chosen  this 
man,  from  among  all  the  fine  men  she  must  know, 
because  she  loved  him  with  that  great  passion 
which  John  felt  in  his  own  heart;  for  at  the  first 
news  of  her  engagement  John  knew  surely  that  he 
loved  her,  worshipped  her  with  a  devotion  akin 
to  reverence.  He  did  not  know  that  he  loved 
only  his  own  idealized  vision  of  her.  This  great 
emotion  stirring  had  never  been  love  until  his  whole 
self  cried  out  in  anguish  when  he  knew  that  she 
was  given  to  one  utterly  unworthy — and  he  was 
as  sure  of  the  man's  unworthiness  as  he  was  of  his 
own  love.  He  tried  to  reason.  He  knew  nothing 
against  this  man,  a  gentleman,  received  at  Ridge- 
way,  accepted  as  an  honourable  suitor.  It  was  of  no 


i  ;6  LITTLE  HOUSES 

avail.  Dislike  became  scorn,  with  pity  for  Barbara 
following — fierce,  unreasoning  passions  which 
dominated  all  his  being,  and  as  immovable  as  the 
hills.  At  times,  long  awake  at  night,  and  all  the 
world  asleep,  he  felt  that  tears  might  come  to  him 
in  his  loneliness,  only  his  manhood  rebelled  proudly. 
He  could  not  believe  that  she  was  happy. 

Barbara  Kingsnorton's  engagement  greatly  dis- 
appointed Mr.  Benlow,  who  had  striven  to  give 
her  and  his  son  every  chance  to  fall  in  love  sensibly 
with  each  other.  Willie  was  permanently  at 
home  now,  helping  his  father  in  the  business. 
He  was  not  the  prodigy  he  had  been  prophesied. 
London  had  made  him  discontented  as  well  as 
disillusioned.  He  had  failed  in  the  great  trial. 
His  father  had  paid  his  debts,  and  he  was  able 
to  swagger  well  at  home,  with  a  few  pupils  at  high 
fees,  and  occasional  performances  in  public;  but 
everybody  knew  he  had  failed.  Unfortunate 
words  of  his  own  were  quoted  against  him: 
"London  is  the  burning  fiery  furnace,  refining 
gold,  and  using  mediocrity  as  fuel."  Barbara 
Kingsnorton  too  was  permanently  at  home.  Elsie 
Benlow  said  to  John  one  day,  "I  think  she  has  found 
London  out,  like  Willie — or  it  found  her  out." 
John  decided  that  she  had  grown  weary  of  her 
ideals;  life  was  not  decked  for  her  happiness — had 
he  not  learnt  the  same  thing,  these  many  days? 
and  in  her  loneliness,  her  gloom,  she  had  given  her- 
self to  this  man  not  worthy  to  tie  the  latchet  of  her 
shoe.  He  suggested  his  idea  to  Elsie  Benlow  later, 
and  she  disappointed  him  cruelly. 

"Oh,  I  think  she  likes  him  well  enough.  He's 
supposed  to  be  worth  a  lot  of  money,  and  he's 
lively — thinks  himself  a  great  aristocrat — just  the 
man  she  would  like,  don't  you  think?" 

John  blamed  Elsie  for  his  disappointment 

Sam   Bloom   was   still   his   friend,   though   the 


"SELVALLEY  RHYMES"  177 

close  comradeship  had  become  strained.  Sam  was 
an  active  member  of  the  Amalgamated  Society 
of  Engineers.  John  was  not;  he  thought  he  had 
no  need  to  be,  and  Sam  accused  him  hotly  of 
selfishness.  There  were  not  a  dozen  trades- 
union  men  at  Binnses;  it  was  too  old-fashioned 
in  its  methods,  and  too  smoothly  working  ever  to 
have  need  of  union  intervention.  Sam  was  an 
extremist,  a  dreamer,  hot  in  enthusiasm,  and 
erratic.  He  neglected  his  work  for  propaganda — 
he  neglected  it  for  sport  too.  "A  man  must  have 
some  recreation,"  he  said.  He  grew  didactic  in 
speech  and  John  accused  him  of  intolerance.  John 
was  not  by  nature  argumentative;  he  was  weak  in 
repartee,  and  incensed  when  Sam  defeated  him,  for 
he  felt  that  he  had  been  in  the  right,  only  Sam 
had  a  clever  trick  of  speech.  Then  he  tried  silence, 
and  Sam  taunted  him.  Maggie  sympathized,  and 
John,  in  his  first  grief  on  hearing  of  Barbara  Kings- 
norton's  engagement,  went  to  Maggie  for  the  ready 
sympathy  he  dared  not  ask.  Maggie  gave 
gladly,  never  asking  why.  With  her  he  first 
understood  the  great  gulf  between  the  merry 
poverty  of  the  poor  and  the  misery  of  impecunious 
respectability.  He  was  sorry  for  Maggie.  He  liked 
her  little  boy,  his  namesake  and  godchild,  and  liked 
to  hear  him  say  "Uncle  John,"  in  his  baby  way. 
Sam  was  often  out  when  he  called;  there  was  no 
harm  in  that — Sam  was  so  often  out.  John  was 
conscious  of  his  choosing  times  when  Maggie 
would  be  alone,  and  explained  to  his  own  satis- 
faction that  he  did  not  care  to  argue  with  Sam 
before  Maggie.  Sam  had  trounced  him  several 
times  thus,  and  his  knowing  secretly  that  Maggie 
was  always  on  his  side  only  added  to  his  morti- 
fication. 

He  had  heard  it  said  often  that  children  came 
as  a  blessing,  to  cement  parents'  love.     It  was  a 


178  LITTLE  HOUSES 

revelation  to  learn  from  Maggie  how  children 
bring  incessant  work  and  expense,  worry  and 
exasperation,  to  poor  homes.  The  knowledge  hurt 
him,  for  it  destroyed  a  treasured  romance;  and 
with  it  was  revealed  how  nagging  tempers  and  the 
unhappiness  of  mean  streets  were  not  due  to  base 
character,  to  the  unchangeable  ignorance  of  the 
dwellers,  but  to  the  grind  of  monotonous  poverty 
and  to  never-ending  hopeless  work.  For  a  while 
he  saw  none  of  the  merriment  and  the  revelry  which 
only  the  poor  enjoy. 

"Thank  goodness  I'm  a  bachelor!"  he  told 
himself.  Yet  he  was  lonely  as  he  had  never  been 
before,  and  yearned  for  more  than  companionship, 
and  suffered  as  his  passion  beat  its  wings  against 
its  cage  of  hopelessness.  When  by  slow  degrees 
he  realized  that  others  must  have  suffered  thus, 
and  greater  than  he,  his  soul  was  rilled  with  wonder, 
and  presently  his  suffering  became  beautiful  and 
precious  to  him. 

The  engagement  was  broken,  and  he  rejoiced. 
Hope  was  no  higher  for  his  own  cause — he  did  not 
permit  himself  the  foolishness  of  hope,  he  said — 
yet  he  was  happy.  Of  many  rumours,  he  chose 
that  which  pleased  him  best:  she  had  broken  the 
engagement  off.  He  was  sure  she  had  not  been 
happy. 

One  Monday  afternoon,  in  autumn,  a  slack  day 
at  the  works,  the  men  in  the  fitting-shop  had  gone 
home  at  three  o'clock.  John  changed  his  clothes, 
had  tea  quickly,  and  went  out  on  his  bicycle.  He 
was  returning  early,  through  the  woods  on  the  first 
hill-slopes  beyond  Nickling.  The  road  was  lonely 
and  rather  narrow — enthusiastic  cyclists,  arched 
like  angry  cats  on  wheels,  chose  always  the  lower 
road.  John  was  riding  gently,  humming  a  little 
tune,  and  thinking  of  nothing  at  all;  and  then, 
rounding  a  curve,  he  saw  Barbara  Kingsnorton 


"SELVALLEY  RHYMES"  179 

cycling  in  front  of  him.  His  first  desire  was  to 
overtake  her  at  once,  but  he  was  overwhelmed  with 
shyness,  and  he  chose  to  ride  behind,  unseen,  in 
adoration.  The  leaves  came  twirling  round  at 
every  little  wind,  and  rustled  under  the  wheels; 
gold  and  brown  and  green  of  every  hue  slid  past, 
and  cool  grey  shadows  filled  the  woods — land  of 
enchantment,  these  few  minutes  since. 

Suddenly  she  swerved.  John  gasped  in  pain,  for 
she  rode  into  the  hedgebank,  and  fell,  and  lay  there, 
very  still.  He  put  out  all  his  strength  and  dashed 
forward. 

She  lay  unconscious  on  her  face.  He  pulled  the 
machine  off  her,  and  turned  her  over  very  gently. 
Her  face  was  white,  her  forehead  bleeding  a  little 
from  a  cut  among  her  hair.  The  red  blood 
frightened  him.  Trembling  in  haste,  he  soaked  his 
handkerchief  in  the  water  of  the  narrow  ditch,  and 
bathed  her  forehead.  She  sighed.  He  had  never 
seen  a  beauty  so  wonderful.  Then  she  opened  her 
eyes,  stared  at  him,  frowned,  struggling  to  under- 
stand, and  at  last  she  strove  to  smile.  He  refused 
to  let  her  try  to  stand. 

"What  happened?"  she  said.  "There  was  noth- 
ing in  the  way,  was  there?  I  must  have  lost  my 
senses.  I  can't  think  what  made  me  do  it.  I  can't 
remember."  She  puckered  her  forehead.  "My 
brain  must  have  given  way." 

She  laughed,  and  John  was  afraid — he  had  never 
heard  her  laugh  so. 

He  put  the  handle-bar  of  her  machine  right,  and 
helped  to  dust  her  clothes;  then  they  walked 
on  for  a  while.  Presently  she  talked  as  though 
trying  to  forget  her  accident,  telling  John  merry 
tales  of  her  schooldays,  holiday  escapades,  of  Lon- 
don, and  asking  many  questions  about  himself. 
When  afterwards  he  reacted  the  scene,  enjoying 
himself  even  more  gloriously  in  fancy,  he  perceived 


i8o  LITTLE  HOUSES 

that  she  had  talked  only  of  the  past.  The  present, 
then,  did  not  hold  her  happiness,  he  said.  She  was 
not  happy.  Over  and  over  he  said  it,  and  chafed  at 
his  own  impotence  to  aid  her. 

He  did  not  see  her  out  cycling  again,  or  walking 
either,  except  to  church  with  her  sister,  although 
he  haunted  the  roads,  and  hoped  continually, 
until  the  rains  came  shrilly  from  the  west. 

To-night,  with  the  book  of  poems  under  his 
arm,  he  felt  that  he  was  approaching  her  again. 
He  looked  for  her  in  the  market,  searching  eagerly, 
though  not  disappointed  any  time. 

A  crowd  was  gathered  in  the  High  Street,  all 
across  the  road.  John  made  for  it  as  soon  as  he 
perceived  the  commotion.  He  was  not  particularly 
interested  to  learn  what  might  be  happening,  and 
he  did  not  run  like  many  folk  flocking  out  of  the 
Bullen.  Nevertheless,  when  he  arrived,  he  pushed 
about  and  craned  his  neck,  and  then  searched  for 
somebody  to  be  angry  with  for  making  him  so 
eager  about  nothing. 

He  was  going  away,  irritable  in  humour,  when 
he  saw  Barbara  Kingsnorton. 

"What  is  it,  Mr.  Allday,  do  you  know?"  she 
said. 

"I  don't — unless  it's  nothing  at  all." 

"It  usually  is,"  said  she.  "Isn't  it  stupid  how 
people  rush  into  a  crowd  like  this!" 

John  was  not  sure  what  to  say. 

"That's  the  proper  thing  to  say,  isn't  it,  Mr. 
Allday?" 

"Yes,"  said  John,  finding  his  courage — "other 
people,  you  mean." 

"Of  course." 

She  smiled. 

She  was  going  home,  the  same  way  as  he,  and  he 
was  embarrassed.  The  book  saved  him ;  he  was  able 
to  walk  with  her  while  he  explained  that  he  was 


"SELVALLEY  RHYMES"  181 

taking  it  to  Nickling,  and  then  she  was  interested; 
she  would  not  wish  to  drive  him  away. 

"I  think  it's  splendid,"  he  told  her.  "There's 
one  especially,  'The  Fat  Lady' — it  must  have  been 
that  night  at  the  Fair.  I  was  in  the  tent  when 
you  were  there,  with  your  sister " 

"I  remember,"  said  Barbara.  "There's  another 
one  you'll  know  too:  your  father  told  us,  Marian 
and  me,  one  day  in  the  park — he  was  telling  us 
about  the  old  days.  It's  called  'The  Three 
R's': 

"  'Our  schoolin'  was  o'  winter  nights, 
W\  readin',  'ritin',  'rithmetic.'0 

"I  haven't  read  that  one  yet,"  said  John. 

He  told  her  Maggie's  story  of  the  curate's  taking 
little  John  home,  and  she  asked  him  many  questions. 
It  was  such  a  little  way  home  to-night. 

"We're  soon  here,"  she  said,  exalting  him. 

"I'm  going  to  get  this,"  he  said  of  the  book.  "I 
didn't  know  it  was  published  this  week." 

She  turned  back  after  they  had  said  "good 
night." 

"Mr.  Allday,  you  needn't  buy  a  copy  unless  you 
want  to  give  one  away.  I've  got  a  spare  copy  I'll 
give  you,  if  you  like." 

He  was  awkward  in  his  thanks,  but  called  after 
her  as  she  went,  "I'll  give  mine  away  and  keep 
yours — may  I?" 

He  listened  to  the  crunch  of  her  footsteps  on 
the  gravel  until  she  had  gone  round  the  curve. 
Nor  rain  nor  snow  could  spoil  this  night's  loveliness. 
He  sang  aloud,  and  laughed  merrily  at  the  thought 
of  folk  believing  his  joy  to  have  been  bought  by 
the  glass  and  swallowed  in  public-houses. 

Every  one  in  Nickling  knew  where  the  curate 
lodged.  John  received  a  fine  welcome.  He  liked 
his  host  from  the  first  moment,  instinctively.  He 


182  LITTLE  HOUSES 

had  come,  sure  that  he  would  like  him,  for  Maggie 
liked  him,  and  Barbara  Kingsnorton  seemed  to 
have  shared  John's  pleasure  in  the  story  of  Maggie's 
little  boy.  John  rose  to  a  keen  enthusiasm.  The 
Church  Social  Club  was  organized,  splendid  in 
success,  and  with  it  a  glee  club,  musical  evenings, 
chamber  concerts,  nigger  minstrels,  rambling 
parties,  cycling  and  picnics  for  Saturday  afternoons. 
The  room  was  rilled  with  a  haze  of  tobacco  smoke ; 
the  curtains  would  be  odorous  till  the  washtub 
received  them.  John's  tongue  was  parched  beyond 
the  powers  of  thin  cocoa  to  assuage.  Neither 
perceived  how  much  they  talked  of  Barbara  Kings- 
norton. 

"My  dear  boy,  I've  been  delighted  to  see  you," 
said  the  curate  when  John  was  going,  and  John 
repeated  it  after  the  door  was  shut.  Mr.  Pettigo 
was  a  gentleman,  and  had  treated  him  as  a  friend. 

John  went  into  the  tiny  public-house  at  the  end 
of  the  village,  and  had  a  pint  of  ale  in  the  parlour 
— he  had  never  tasted  better  ale. 

His  father  had  gone  to  bed  when  he  arrived. 
His  mother  had  expected  him  early,  and  was  in- 
clined to  grumble. 

"I  went  to  Bloom's,"  he  began. 

"Was  Sam  in?"  asked  his  mother. 

"No — I  saw  Maggie." 

"You  haven't  been  there  all  this  time,  have 
you?" 

"Good  gracious,  no !  I've  been  with  Miss  Barbara 
Kingsnorton,  and  had  supper  with  the  Reverend 
Something  Pettigo,  B.A." 

He  had  never  been  prouder. 

"Was  it  with  him  you  had  the  beer?"  said  his 
mother. 

He  laughed  aloud,  until  she  had  to  smile. 

"There's  a  parcel  for  you  from  Kingsnortons'. 
I've  been  itching  to  open  it." 


"SELVALLEY  RHYMES"  183 

He  opened  the  book  and  read  his  father's  tale, 
"The  Three  R's."  Stirred  by  his  ardour,  his  mother 
recollected  episodes  of  her  girlhood,  when  Mrs. 
Kingsnorton  used  to  call  at  her  father's  house. 
John  knew  her  stories  well,  and  enjoyed  them  again 
by  keeping  in  front  of  her.  She  had  been  worried 
at  the  thought  of  his  going  so  often  to  see  Maggie 
Bloom;  it  was  not  the  proper  thing  to  do,  she  had 
decided.  Now  she  forgot  all  she  had  resolved  to 
say.  Full  of  the  good  news  of  John's  progress,  she 
woke  her  husband  when  she  went  to  bed,  and  was 
vexed  because  he  grumbled. 

She  had  told  John,  "There'll  be  no  need  for  you 
to  buy  a  book.  It's  a  waste  of  money." 

"I  suppose  it  would  be,"  John  agreed. 

He  had  been  tempted.  Then,  afterwards,  when 
his  resolution  came,  he  knew  he  would  not  dare  to 
tell  her.  It  was  a  promise  to  Barbara,  he  reasoned, 
and  so  he  must  keep  it.  He  must  buy  a  copy  of 
the  poems — they  should  be  Maggie's  Christmas 
present — she  would  treasure  them. 

He  was  so  happy,  and  so  full  of  thoughts,  he 
forgot  to  say  his  j»rayers. 


CHAPTER  III 

FRIENDS 

BARBARA  KINGSNORTON  said  of  the 
curate's  progress,  'It's  positively  alarm- 
ing— even  the  worst  dressed  people  are 
coming  to  church."  John  Allday,  to  whom  she 
said  it  one  Sunday  morning  after  service,  told  it 
everywhere,  even  after  he  had  been  rebuked  for 
repeating  himself  too  frequently.  The  vicar,  on 
a  Sunday  early  in  the  New  Year,  introduced  into 
his  sermon  irrelevant  and  emphatic  homilies  on  the 
treachery  of  popular  success.  At  once  the  town 
learnt  that  he  was  jealous  of  his  new  curate.  "And 
if  it  isn't  that,  what  is  it  then?  Of  course  it  is," 
said  the  gossips. 

The  Christmas  Social  had  been  the  curate's 
triumph :  he  had  recited  a  poem  about  a  fat  man  in 
church,  in  crinoline  days,  who  put  his  top  hat  in  the 
aisle  by  the  pew,  and  he  had  been  the  fat  man,  his 
wife,  the  verger,  a  young  lady,  her  grandma,  the 
parson,  and  the  hat,  one  after  another,  so  quick  that 
the  audience  choked  and  gurgled  and  shrieked,  and 
the  vicar  had  momentarily  forgotten  that  he  was 
the  vicar.  On  the  following  Sunday  the  parish 
church  had  been  nearly  full  in  the  morning  because 
Mr.  Pettigo  was  there  to  preach.  He  did  not  make 
them  laugh  now,  but  thrilled  them  unexpectedly 
— gave  them  funny  feelings  inside,  like  the  trem- 

184 


FRIENDS  185 

blings  in  the  best  melodramas,  only  more  so,  ex- 
plained Barbara  at  home.  At  evening  service  the 
vicar  read  a  sermon  twenty  minutes  to  a  congrega- 
tion dozing.  It  was  a  fine  evening,  and  the  crowd 
was  at  the  mission. 

The  Social  Club  was  founded.  John  was  invited 
to  the  first  meeting,  and  he  took  other  men  from 
Binnses.  Old  Gentleman  Binns  promised  one 
hundred  pounds.  He  was  very  old  now,  still 
about  in  fine  weather,  and  so  erect  that  malicious 
folk  talked  of  stays;  but  his  face  was  thinner,  like 
parchment,  and  his  lusty  vitality  was  gone. 

One  afternoon  John  came  home  early.  It  was 
a  cold,  raw  day;  he  was  thinking  of  hot  toast  for 
his  tea,  and  he  whistled  merrily  as  he  walked. 

Barbara  and  Marian  Kingsnorton  were  sitting 
at  the  fireside.  They  had  been  having  tea;  the 
best  china  was  out.  John,  dirty  from  the  works, 
was  grievously  embarrassed. 

Marian  explained.  Amateur  theatricals  had  been 
suggested  to  raise  some  money  for  the  new  Social 
Club;  they  had  talked  it  over  with  Mr.  Pettigo, 
and  he  had  declared  the  idea  was  excellent;  they 
might  have  local  interest,  and  continue.  The  name 
had  been  suggested,  "The  Selvalley  Players." 

"There  used  to  be  famous  mumming  here,  years 
ago,  at  Christmas-time,"  said  she,  "I've  heard 
mother  say.  I'm  writing  something  after  the  old 
style — 'Saint  George' — and  we  came  this  afternoon 
to  ask  your  father — he  remembers " 

"Not  so  well  as  I'd  like,"  said  John's  father, 
greatly  flattered. 

John  interrupted  him. 

"It's  old  Mr.  Peacock  you  should  see.  He's 
played  'Saint  George,'  years  ago." 

Marian  was  eager  to  go  at  once.  Barbara  in- 
sisted on  John's  first  having  some  tea. 

They  were   fortunate.     Old   Mr.    Peacoclc  was 


186  LITTLE  HOUSES 

bright  and  ready  to  talk.  His  housekeeper  assured 
them  he  was  better  than  he  had  been  for  years. 
"He  worries  about  young  Mr.  Bloom,  his  grand- 
son," she  explained.  "He  sits  there  sometimes  all 
day  brooding — never  a  word.  I'm  frightened  to 
go  in,  for  fear  he  should  be  gone." 

John  accompanied  the  ladies  to  the  Toll,  and 
then  went  back  a  little  way,,  to  a  grocer's  where  they 
had  a  licence.  He  was  invited  to  the  first  meeting 
of  the  new  Selvalley  Players.  Marian  and  Barbara 
Kingsnorton  had  shaken  hands  with  him,  and 
Barbara  had  added  her  invitation  to  her  sister's; 
this  day  was  to  be  celebrated,  not  to  be  let  pass 
like  other  days.  He  demanded  a  bottle  of  the  best 
port  in  the  shop,  and  went  home  in  triumph,  banged 
the  wine  on  the  table,  sang  a  snatch  of  song,  broke 
the  cork  crumbling  in  the  neck  of  the  bottle,  patted 
his  mother's  back  when  she  drank,  and  made  her 
choke  with  merriment. 


The  first  rehearsal  was  fixed  for  a  Friday  evening 
in  February,  and  the  performance  for  a  week  after 
Easter.  John  was  now  a  member  of  the  committee 
of  the  newly-founded  Social  Club,  and  was  given 
a  small  part  in  Marian  Horden's  play,  "Saint 
George."  A  farce  was  to  be  played,  too.  Barbara 
had  said  at  the  first  meeting,  "It  must  be  farce — 
it's  like  giving  children  pills,  and  then  jam  after." 

John  was  excited  all  the  week. 

On  the  Friday  morning  he  lost  a  quarter.  He 
had  not  felt  well  for  several  days.  This  morning 
he  might  have  been  in  time  if  he  had  hurried  after 
waking,  but  he  didn't  want  to  hurry.  He  was  a 
good  timekeeper  at  the  works — a  quarter  lost  to-day 
was  nothing. 

His  mother  called  him  as  he  dozed  again. 


FRIENDS  187 

"I  didn't  know  it  was  late.  Aren't  you  up  yet, 
John?" 

"No,"  he  said  irritably.  "Don't  worry,  mother. 
I'm  going  after  breakfast." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  last  night?"  she  said, 
aggrieved. 

He  did  not  feel  any  more  inclined  to  rise  at 
breakfast-time,  and  he  startled  his  mother  when  he 
came  late  downstairs. 

"I'm  going  to  have  the  day  off.  I'll  take  the 
gun  and  see  if  the  fresh  air  will  do  me  good.  I  don't 
feel  very  grand.  Sam  Bloom  was  telling  me  there 
was  a  lot  of  golden  plover  over  above  Nickling  last 
Sunday.  I  know  there's  some  been  shot." 

"I  don't  like  to  see  you  missing  your  work,"  said 
his  mother. 

She  made  him  feel  like  a  guilty  schoolboy  caught 
playing  truant.  He  was  very  seldom  absent  from 
work,  and  so  seldom  did  he  go  out  with  the  old 
gun  that  she  declared  the  ten  shillings  wasted  on 
the  licence. 

Thursday  had  been  a  pleasant  day,  promising 
early  spring.  To-day  was  gloomy,  the  sky  leaden, 
and  the  air  cold  and  raw,  with  no  wind  stirring  to 
dispel  the  mist.  The  mud  was  sticky,  on  the  roads 
everywhere,  and  John  was  soon  tired  walking 
His  stiffness  did  not  wear  off;  his  head  ached. 
The  road  grew  worse  as  it  came  to  the  fringe  of 
the  woods;  hoofs  and  wheels  churned  the  mud, 
and  rainwater  lay  in  every  hollow.  Many  pines 
had  been  felled,  and  the  air  was  filled  with  odours 
of  wood  and  rotting  needles.  Larks  buzzed  over 
the  misty  fields. 

In  one  place  the  wood  mounted  a  bank,  and 
rabbits  had  made  burrows  innumerable.  John  was 
tempted.  He  put  his  gun  on  the  top  of  the  low 
wall  and  sprang  over,  alighted  on  a  round  stone 
and  slipped.  He  fell  on  knees  and  hands  in  the 


i88  LITTLE  HOUSES 

water  of  a  shallow  ditch,  and  swore  as  he  scrambled 
out.  His  legs  were  soaked,  and  his  arms  nearly 
to  the  elbow.  In  his  exasperation  he  refused  to 
listen  to  the  voice  which  demanded  his  returning 
home.  Half  a  mile  further  would  see  him  on  the 
open  hillslopes ;  he  would  come  to  no  harm  so  long 
as  he  kept  moving. 

He  saw  no  plover — the  flocks  had  probably  gone 
south — and  he  had  very  little  sport.  A  wood 
pigeon  was  safe  in  his  pocket.  His  only  other 
shot  had  killed  a  rabbit,  but,  hit  too  far  behind, 
the  wretched  thing  had  scrambled  into  a  burrow 
to  die. 

In  the  distance  he  saw  three  men  come  out  from 
the  woods,  and  then  two  more.  Presently  he 
recognized  Sam  Bloom.  They  had  had  no  sport. 
He  was  glad  to  join  them,  to  forget  his  own 
feelings. 

In  a  little  hamlet  public-house  they  had  ale  and 
hot  punch,  onions  and  bread  and  cheese.  John 
was  light-headed,  and  jolly  with  the  others;  but 
when  they  returned  he  thought  they  never  would 
come  to  the  end — he  was  cold  and  dizzy,  tired  out, 
and  melancholy.  A  thin  rain  fell  in  silence  all  the 
way. 

"I've  caught  cold,"  he  said. 

"Get  to  bed,  with  a  hot  brick  wrapped  in  flannel," 
advised  Sam. 

John  thought  of  the  rehearsal,  and  summoned 
his  failing  resolution. 

When  he  entered  the  house  he  nearly  collapsed. 

"Where's  the  golden  plover?"  asked  his 
mother. 

"I  should  have  been  better  at  work,"  he  said, 
'dispirited. 

"I  could  have  told  you  that." 

She  was  irritable,  and  John  resented  her  tone. 
He  refused  to.  change  his  clothes  until  he  had 


FRIENDS  1189 

eaten  the  dinner  which  had  gone  dry  waiting  for 
him  on  the  hob. 

"I  know  I'm  stupid!"  he  said  angrily. 

He  refused  to  take  an  umbrella  when  he  set  out 
for  the  rehearsal.  He  hated  umbrellas.  As  a  con- 
cession to  his  mother  he  went  to  the  back  door 
and  assured  her  the  rain  had  nearly  ceased.  When 
he  had  gone  she  went  out  and  held  up  her  face 
anxiously — he  did  not  know  that. 

A  wet  mist  hung  in  the  air.  The  water  gurgled 
in  the  ditches.  The  trees  dripped  miserably.  John 
was  wet  again  when  he  arrived  at  the  church  school- 
room, in  Nickling,  for  the  rehearsal.  It  was  stupid 
to  have  come  all  this  way,  he  said  now. 

The  rehearsal  disappointed  him.  The  players 
read  their  parts  and  tried  to  laugh  at  their  own 
awkwardness;  the  play  seemed  to  be  utterly 
lifeless. 

Those  living  in  the  town  returned  by  train.  John 
was  standing  by  Elsie  Benlow  when  the  party  was 
about  to  set  out. 

"You  won't  be  in  the  wet  so  much  if  you  go  by 
train,  will  you?"  she  said. 

"It's  scarcely  worth  it,"  said  he. 

A  moment  afterwards  he  was  angry  with  himself. 
He  fancied  she  was  disappointed — he  was  sure  of 
it  when  she  had  gone  away.  All  his  thoughts 
were  for  Barbara  Kingsnorton,  and  the  walk  back 
with  her  and  Marian.  When  he  saw  the  halos 
of  the  carriage  lamps  he  called  himself  a  fool; 
he  had  forgotten  the  carriage.  He'  was  too  proud 
to  wait  that  they  might  invite  him  to  accompany 
them.  Quickly  he  walked  through  the  village,  and 
along  the  muddy  road.  The  carriage  spattered  him 
as  it  passed. 

He  was  exhausted  when  he  arrived  home.  His 
mother  had  gone  to  bed;  he  had  hoped  she  would 
be  waiting  for  him,  with  a  hot  drink  ready.  Then 


190  LITTLE  HOUSES 

he  perceived  a  basin  of  gruel  on  the  hob  and  a 
saucer  over  it.  She  had  thought  of  him  before 
she  went.  And  when  he  went  upstairs  she  called 
out  to  him,  "Have  you  had  your  gruel?" 

"Yes,  mother,  thank  you,"  he  said,  striving  all 
he  knew  to  show  her  how  he  understood  her  love. 

But  in  a  moment  his  emotion  was  dead;  he 
was  so  weary,  so  full  of  dull  pain,  he  had  no 
thought. 

He  slept  heavily.  When  he  awoke,  gradually 
becoming  conscious  that  his  mother  was  calling 
him,  he  saw  it  was  bright  daylight.  He  was  glad 
she  had  let  him  sleep.  Then,  when  he  rose  and 
began  to  dress,  he  was  disappointed  that  his  heavi- 
ness was  not  gone  from  him,  and  he  grew  irritable. 
Before  his  mother  he  grumbled  at  having  lost  an- 
other quarter. 

At  the  works  the  men's  talk  of  the  cup-tie  at 
Selbridge  reminded  him  that  he  had  promised  to 
go  with  Sam.  He  called  himself  stupid  for  having 
given  the  promise;  he  didn't  like  to  break  it.  His 
mother  was  annoyed  when  he  told  her  at  dinner- 
time. She  had  expected  him  to  have  a  hot  bath 
and  go  to  bed.  "You've  got  a  severe  cold  on  you. 
Why  don't  you  have  a  bit  of  sense?"  she  said, 
and  a  while  later  she  told  him  he  was  just  like 
what  his  father  used  to  be.  She  might  have  won 
him  to  stay  if  she  had  not  said  that. 

Crowds  of  men  went  from  Pedley  Hill  to  the 
match.  Sam  had  many  friends,  noisy  sporting  men 
who  liked  beer,  and  John  had  to  have  rounds  of 
drinks  with  them.  Then  he  stood  all  the  match 
through  in  a  thin,  misty  rain,  his  head  dizzy,  and 
his  feet  chilled  and  damp.  Afterwards  they  had 
more  drinks.  Sam  took  him  home  to  tea,  and 
Maggie  put  rum  in  his  cup  each  time,  and  made 
him  wear  Sam's  slippers. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  he  went  home. 


FRIENDS  191 

"I'm  all  right— bit  of  a  cold,  that's  all,"  he  as- 
sured his  mother. 

On  Sunday  morning  he  was  so  stiff  he  could 
scarcely  put  on  his  clothes.  The  stiffness  wore 
off  after  a  while,  and  he  passed  the  morning  in- 
doors. Mr.  Pettigo's  Bible-class  was  held  in  the 
afternoon;  every  member  of  the  Social  Club  was 
supposed  to  be  a  member  of  the  Bible-class  too. 
To-day  Mrs.  Allday  came  downstairs  from  her 
nap  after  dinner,  and  saw  that  John  had  taken  an 
umbrella. 

"I'm  frightened  of  him  being  ill,"  she  told  her 
husband. 

Monday  came.  John  was  no  better.  On  Tues- 
day he  complained  at  the  works  that  he  felt  eighty 
years  old  when  he  got  up  in  a  morning,  and  the 
others  laughed  at  him.  On  Wednesday  he  was 
worse.  He  was  caught  in  a  heavy  shower  when 
he  went  back  to  work  after  dinner;  all  the  after- 
noon he  was  continually  looking  at  his  watch, 
praying  for  the  hour  when  he  might  get  home  to 
bed,  craving  with  the  whole  force  of  his  slow 
thoughts.  On  Thursday  morning  he  lay  too  stiff 
to  move  when  his  mother  called  him.  When  he 
rose  for  breakfast  he  had  to  struggle  to  get  into 
his  clothes;  his  mother  helped  him  with  his  vest 
and  jacket.  She  wanted  him  to  stay  at  home. 

"I'll  go  to  the  doctor's  to-morrow  or  Saturday, 
if  I'm  no  better,"  he  promised  her. 

"You  ought  to  go  to-day,"  she  told  him. 

She  was  anxious.  When  she  had  watched  him 
go  she  thought  of  him  constantly;  she  could  not 
settle  to  her  housework. 

At  dinner-time  she  did  not  recognize  his  foot- 
steps on  the  blue  bricks  of  the  yard. 

"I'm  going  to  bed,"  he  announced. 

"I'll  get  the  doctor  to  come  at  once,"  she  said. 

He  refused  to  have  the  doctor.     "To-morrow, 


192  LITTLE  HOUSES 

if  I'rh  no  better,"  he  repeated.  He  dreaded  that 
the  doctor  would  keep  him  in  bed,  or  at  least 
indoors,  throughout  the  week-end,  and  to-morrow 
was  the  rehearsal — he  must  be  better  for  that. 

"I  don't  know  how  I  feel,"  he  said,  when  his 
mother  brought  his  tea,  at  dusk.  Then,  in  the 
quiet  of  the  evening,  he  fell  asleep.  She  came  up 
at  nine  o'clock  with  a  basin  of  gruel — Mr.  Allday 
had  just  had  his  in  bed — but  when  she  saw  he  was 
sleeping,  she  slipped  quietly  away.  She  told  her 
husband  John  would  be  better  in  the  morning;  so 
they  both  had  a  good  night,  for  their  minds  were 
content.  Each  had  been  worrying  and  striving  to 
keep  it  hidden  from  the  other. 

She  called  John  for  breakfast.  He  was  a  long 
time  coming,  she  thought.  At  last,  disquieted,  she 
went  to  listen  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  and  then 
she  ran  up  in  answer  to  his  call. 

"I  can't  get  up,"  he  said.  "I'm  ill,  I  think.  I've 
been  all  of  ashiver  in  the  night,  and  now  I'm  sweat- 
ing something  awful.  I  don't  like  it." 

She  put  on  her  old  cloak  and  bonnet,  and  hurried 
for  the  doctor.  But  the  doctor  didn't  hurry — it 
seemed  that  he  would  never  come.  She  went  into 
the  front  room  and  looked  up  the  road,  and  moved 
to  and  fro  about  the  house,  unable  to  sit  a  moment 
anywhere.  Mr.  Allday  came  downstairs,  and  sat 
by  the  fire,  and  watched  the  clock.  He  couldn't 
conceal  his  disquietude.  "He  ought  to  be  here," 
he  said,  over  and  over  again. 

"Rheumatic  fever,"  said  the  doctor. 

He  came  again  in  the  evening,  and  then  every 
day. 

"You  aren't  to  worry,"  he  explained.  "As  long 
as  the  stiffness  keeps  on  the  move  we're  safe — if 
we  can  keep  it  away  from  the  heart" 

John  lay  in  agony. 

Maggie  was  the  first  caller  to  inquire.    Sam  had 


FRIENDS  193 

heard  of  John's  going  home  ill  from  the  works,  and 
had  told  her.  She  came  at  once.  Sam  followed 
her  in  the  evening,  and  stayed  to  cheer  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Allday.  The  curate  came  on  Sunday  evening. 
On  Monday  the  maid  from  Ridgeway  came  to  ask 
how  Mr.  John  Allday  was.  John  brightened  when 
his  mother  told  him  who  had  called.  Towards 
the  end  of  the  week  Marian  and  Barbara  Kings- 
norton  called  at  the  front  door,  and  stood  a  few 
moments  to  chat.  Then  Elsie  Benlow  and  her 
mother  called.  Men  came  from  the  works,  and 
members  of  the  new  Social  Club.  The  neighbours 
asked  every  morning. 

"It's  nice  to  see  him  so  well  respected,"  said 
Mrs.  Allday. 

Mr.  Allday  agreed.  He  was  as  proud  as  she 
and  as  anxious.  He  put  the  hassock  for  her  feet 
when  she  sat  at  table,  and  praised  her  tidiness  about 
the  house,  and  her  care.  She  shook  his  cushion 
for  him  on  the  arm-chair,  and  put  the  herbs  ready 
at  his  hand,  to  burn  on  the  little  platter  so  that 
he  could  inhale  the  smoke,  although  she  couldn't 
bear  the  stench  of  it. 

"You're  a  dear  old  lass!"  he  told  her. 

His  smile  lingered  after  she  was  gone  from  the 
room,  and  she  would  come  back,  moments  after- 
wards, smiling  too. 

One  incident  had  to  be  repeated  often  in  recol- 
lection, so  great  a  pleasure  had  it  brought.  A 
wheezy,  bent  old  woman  called  one  morning  at 
the  back  door,  and  Mrs.  Allday  prepared  the  usual 
"Not  to-day,  thank  you,"  which  she  kept  for 
hawkers  and  old  clothes  women. 

"It  ain't  selling,  I  am,"  said  the  old  woman, 
forestalling  her.  "I've  brought  these  for  the  young 
gentleman,  with  my  respects,  an'  I  hope  he's  get- 
ting better  nicely." 

She  stepped  inside  and  put  a  cardboard  box  down 


194  LITTLE  HOUSES 

on  the  edge  of  the  kitchen  sink.  Mrs.  Allday  was 
too  astonished  to  think  of  keeping  her  out. 

"He  was  very  good  to  me  at  Christmas-time, 
me  lying  destroyed  I  was  with  the  bronchitis,"  she 
explained.  "I've  known  him  years,  me  gathering 
watercress  and  that — I  often  used  to  be  seeing  him 
about  the  roads,  and  pass  the  time  o'  day.  It  was 
him  got  my  grandson  in  at  Binnses,  and  me  being 
in  my  bed  he  sent  me  a  bottle  of  wine — only  a 
little  it  was,  but  it  done  me  a  power  of  good.  There 
ain't  many  to  be  kind  to  a  lone  old  body  like  me, 
since  my  man  died  on  me.  Good  morning  to  you, 
ma'am.  God  save  you  kindly." 

The  box  held  half  a  dozen  eggs. 

"She  stole  'em,  I'll  lay  a  penny,"  said  Mr. 
Allday.  "And  as  for  the  tongue  on  her,  you'll 
be  buying  all  manner  of  rubbish  off  her  now, 
every  times  she  comes." 

"Would  you  have  me  turn  her  away?"  said  Mrs. 
Allday  seriously. 

And  then  they  laughed  together.  Both  were 
secretly  more  proud  of  their  son  than  they  would 
say;  they  told  the  story  to  every  visitor. 

Days  passed  into  weeks.  John  grew  better 
very  slowly.  One  day  he  managed  to  get  up  and 
put  on  some  clothes,  but  the  effort  was  too  great, 
and  he  fell  on  the  landing  at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 
His  mother  and  father  had  to  put  him  back  to 
bed.  He  came  downstairs  at  last.  A  chicken 
came  from  Ridgeway  for  him.  Maggie  brought 
some  calves'  feet  jelly;  of  all  the  visitors  she  had 
been  the  most  assiduous. 

One  afternoon  the  curate  came,  and  Barbara 
Kingsnorton  came  with  him.  John's  father  and 
mother  were  enjoying  their  after-dinner  nap  up- 
stairs, beyond  their  time,  and  John  was  alone  by 
the  sitting-room  fire. 

"I've  brought  a  lady,  you  see,"  said  the  curate 


FRIENDS  195 

gaily.  "We're  going  to  call  her  Mrs.  Pettigo 
some  day." 

John  suffered  acutely  for  a  while.  Then  the  ach- 
ing passed,  and  he  rejoiced;  she  would  be  nearer 
to  him  still,  for  Pettigo  was  his  loyal  friend. 

Old  Gentleman  Binns  came  in  his  carriage  one 
sunny  morning,  and  John  was  able  to  go  out  by 
the  front  door  and  stand  for  a  moment. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  said  the  old  gentleman. 
"Look  after  yourself — not  back  till  you're  better, 
mind." 

He  looked  after  all  his  good  workmen  in  this 
way.  A  boy  had  come  from  the  works  every 
Saturday  with  half  John's  usual  wages.  To  John, 
as  to  each  man,  this  visit  seemed  a  special  favour 
for  himself  alone,  and  it  delighted  him.  Sam  and 
Maggie  came  that  day  after  tea,  and  John  sat  up 
till  nine  o'clock;  they  were  very  merry. 

Then  Barbara  and  Mr.  Pettigo  called  for  him, 
and  took  him  for  a  drive  in  the  Kingsnortons'  car- 
riage. It  was  his  crowning  happiness.  Afterwards 
in  thought  he  had  the  same  drive  with  them,  many 
times,  until  fancy  decked  anew  for  him  the  woods 
and  fields,  in  such  a  spring  as  never  was  in  poor 
unimaginative  reality. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Benlow  and  Elsie  came  one  day 
after  dinner,  and  drove  him  out  for  the  afternoon. 
He  sat  with  Elsie  at  the  back  of  the  dogcart,  their 
knees  together  tinder  the  warm  rug,  the  hedgerows 
shutting  slowly  behind  them,  and  the  roadway,  a 
striped  dun  ribbon,  rushing  away  underneath. 
Mr.  Benlow  liked  him,  he  knew.  Mrs.  Benlow 
always  called  him  "Allday,"  as  men  called  him 
at  the  works — there  was  a  quaint  welcome  for  him 
in  her  bluntness.  Once,  as  he  sat  with  Elsie,  the 
rug  slipped,  and  they  both  caught  it  so  that  their 
heads  came  very  close  together.  John  felt 
a  sudden  tightening  across  his  body;  he  was 


ig6  LITTLE  HOUSES 

embarrassed,  and  sat  a  long  while  silent.  When  he 
glanced  at  Elsie,  he  fancied  she  was  self-conscious 
too.  Afterwards,  with  memory  stirring,  he  told 
himself  he  was  in  danger  of  letting  pride  make 
him  foolish. 

One  souvenir  of  the  drive  troubled  him  inter- 
mittently for  several  days.  They  had  tea  at  a 
country  inn,  and  while  he  stood  with  Mr.  Benlow 
in  the  yard  afterwards  he  saw  a  cyclist  pass — trie 
man  Hurst,  who  had  been  Barbara  Kingsnorton's 
fiance.  John  was  startled.  What  was  the  fellow 
doing  here?  He  had  an  aunt  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, and  might  be  staying  with  her.  Everybody 
had  a  bicycle — cycling  was  a  craze.  John  was  not 
satisfied  with  any  explanation.  On  the  way  back 
he  scanned  every  by-road  and  every  distant  figure, 
fearful  that  he  might  perceive  Barbara  Kingsnorton. 
He  saw  her  next  day  on  her  bicycle  go  past  the 
house,  on  her  way  into  the  country,  and  he  was 
afraid,  against  all  his  reason. 

Mr.  Benlow  had  talked  business  before  tea;  he 
was  buying  bricks  from  the  works  in  which  John 
had  a  share,  and  he  explained  how  he  had  started 
years  ago.  John's  ambition  was  fired. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  STRIKE 

IN  July  the  great  engineers'  strike  began. 
Pedley  Hill  was  taken  by  surprise.  It  had 
been  too  loyally  busy,  celebrating  the  Queen's 
Diamond  Jubilee,  to  have  time  to  think  of  labour 
troubles.  Such  things  had  been  like  Arctic  ex- 
peditions: they  provided  something  to  talk  about, 
without  affecting  the  quiet  rhythm  of  life.  The 
London  Dock  strike  of  1889  had  not  been  so 
interesting  or  so  important  as  Mrs.  Maybrick's 
trial.  In  1893  the  coal  miners'  strike  had  had  no 
chance  of  being  talked  about  against  the  fierce 
arguments  on  Home  Rule  and  the  wonders  of  the 
World's  Fair  at  Chicago;  and,  more  important 
than  those  things,  a  Pedley  Hill  councillor  had  run 
away  with  an  alderman's  servant,  and  had  been 
brought  back  by  his  own  wife,  like  a  naughty 
schoolboy,  to  be  officially  forgiven.  The  engineers' 
strike  came  as  a  home  affair,  for  the  men  at  the  big 
Selbridge  works  came  out,  and  many  of  them  lived 
in  Pedley  Hill.  At  Binnses  the  work  went  on 
quietly  as  it  had  done  these  many  years;  the  men 
saw  that  a  strike  was  no  affair  of  theirs.  John 
Allday's  apprehensions  were  for  Sam  Bloom  and 
Maggie — the  men  were  out  at  Cadby,  Stoke  & 
Company,  the  big  foundry.  John  was  sorry  for 
Maggie.  He  had  no  other  interest  in  the  strike, 
and  went  steadily  about  his  own  affairs.  He  had 

197 


198  LITTLE  HOUSES 

quite  recovered  from  his  illness.  At  the  Diamond 
Jubilee  holiday  he  had  taken  his  father  and  mother 
to  Llandudno  for  the  week-end.  The  weather 
had  been  grand.  A  ship  had  been  set  on  fire  in 
the  bay  at  night — a  novel  sort  of  bonfire.  They 
had  never  enjoyed  themselves  better,  his  father  and 
mother  declared. 

The  first  news  of  the  trouble  came  from  London: 
engineers  were  demanding  an  eight-hour  day. 
Old-fashioned  people  heard  it  with  horror; 
employers  cried  out  that  it  would  be  the  ruin  of 
the  country — yet  the  men  insisted  on  it.  Some 
prophesied  it  would  soon  be  over — a  stupid  affair 
— but  they  saw  presently  that  it  was  to  be  a  fight 
between  the  powerful  trades  union  and  the 
employers,  federated  to  break  its  tyranny,  or 
federated  because  they  were  tyrants  in  fear  at 
last.  Argumentative  folk  relied  on  the  heavy 
cudgel  of  reiteration,  and  convinced  themselves 
again  and  again.  Nobody  outside  the  union  ex- 
pected the  men  to  win. 

Reports  came  in  rapidly  from  different  parts  of 
the  country — the  men  were  coming  out  every- 
where. There  was  no  rioting;  the  men  settled 
down  with  quiet  determination  to  win — so  did 
the  masters.  In  a  short  while  Pedley  Hill  was 
about  its  business  as  usual.  More  groups  of  men 
stood  idling  in  the  Bullen  during  the  day ;  that  was 
all  the  difference  to  be  seen,  except  in  the  strikers' 
own  homes. 

Sam  Bloom  called  at  Alldays*  in  the  evening 
after  the  Selbridge  District  Committee  had  ordered 
the  men  to  hand  in  their  notices.  Sam  was  reck- 
lessly enthusiastic.  "Now  we  shall  see !"  he  said 
in  triumph.  "To  a  finish  this  time!"  He  banged 
the  table  with  his  fist,  and  set  the  supper  crockery 
rattling. 

"That's  what  I'm  most  afraid  of — a  fight  to  a 


THE  STRIKE  199 

finish.  I'm  sorry  to  see  it,"  said  Mr.  Allday 
quietly. 

Sam  indignantly  rejected  his  sympathy. 

"We're  in  for  it — we  know  we're  in  for  it!  It 
isn't  sympathy  we  want,  or  charity — it's  justice, 
a  fair  chance  for  happiness." 

"It's  Maggie  I'm  sorry  for,  and  the  children. 
Why  should  they  suffer?  You  can't  gain  by  it, 
Sam." 

"Better  suffer  once  than  suffer  everlastingly!" 
exclaimed  Sam.  "Isn't  it  better  to  lose  in  a  just 
cause  than  win  in  a  selfish  one?  It  isn't  the  man 
who  wins  for  himself  who  moves  the  world — it's 
the  one  who  suffers.  Where's  your  Christianity?" 

Mr.  Allday  shook  his  head. 

"Ah,  Sam,  you  won't  let  me  help  you.  I'm 
an  old  man  now,  with  my  infirmity  on  me,  and  I 
know.  You're  a  man  seeing  visions — you  ask 
for  what's  right  and  just  in  the  world.  What's 
the  French  say?  'Equality,  brotherhood' — 
something  of  that,  isn't  it?  But  you'll  never  see 
it,  nor  your  son,  nor  your  son's  son.  All  your 
life  you'll  strive,  and  win  two  or  three  souls,  maybe, 
and  disappointments  beyond  counting,  and  then 
what?  Why,  my  lad,  you'll  die,  and  there'll  be 
a  mere  nothing  done,  and  your  own  flesh  and  blood 
left  to  slave." 

"But  something  will  be  done — you  admit  that!" 
said  Sam  excitedly.  "Then  somebody  else  will 
carry  it  on." 

Mr.  Allday  shook  his  head  again.  When  Sam 
had  gone,  he  sat  up  talking  with  John  until  Mrs. 
Allday  had  to  remind  them  it  was  long  past  time 
for  bed. 

"If  he  wasn't  so  honest,  and  so  simple  in  his 
way  of  looking  at  the  world,  as  though  everybody 
was  as  honest  as  himself,  why,  you  could  lose  your 
patience  with  him  easy,  and  then  it  wouldn't 


200  LITTLE  HOUSES 

bother  your  head.  Only  when  I  think  what  a  fine 
man  he'd  have  made,  how  he  could  be  getting 
on,  into  a  nice  house,  with  a  bit  of  garden  to  it, 
and  a  little  servant  lass  to  mind  the  children, 
always  saving  a  bit  and  creeping  higher — oh,  it 
worries  me." 

"There's  got  to  be  all  sorts,  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs. 
Allday.  She  was  tired. 

"Mr.  Allday  smiled. 

"Well,  mother,  that's  as  may  be,"  said  he.  "It's 
very  kind  of  the  rogues  and  vagabonds  to  keep 
us  from  having  to  take  their  places — very  kind  of 
'em." 

John  laughed,  and  his  mother  turned  out  the  gas 
to  hurry  them. 

Most  of  the  men  at  Binnses  had  friends  or  rela- 
tives among  the  strikers.  A  few  of  the  reckless 
younger  men  talked  of  striking  here,  but  they  had 
no  following.  There  was  no  union  to  support  them. 
Fifteen  shillings  a  week  strike  pay  was  not  much; 
still,  it  was  better  than  nothing,  thought  the  mar- 
ried men  who  had  families  to  keep.  There  was  no 
fun  in  a  strike  for  them.  Even  if  they  managed 
to  win  they  would  have  lost  in  victory;  it 
would  take  years  to  make  up  the  total  wages 
forfeited. 

They  were  startled  one  morning  by  the  sudden 
roar  of  the  steam  bull.  Men  dropped  their  tools, 
and  went  out  of  the  shops  to  see  what  was  the 
matter.  Then  the  news  came.  Old  Gentleman 
Binns  wanted  to  see  the  men.  He  was  waiting 
at  the  top  of  the  steps  by  the  engine-house  door, 
the  manager  on  one  side  of  him,  and  the  grimy 
engineman  standing  behind.  His  coat  was  tightly 
buttoned,  as  usual,  his  top  hat  glittered  in  the  sun, 
and  his  thin,  gloved  hands  rested  on  the  gold  knob 
of  his  cane.  He  was  in  his  ninetieth  year,  very 
frail  now,  and  stooping,  the  ruddiness  gone  from 


THE  STRIKE  201 

his  face,  and  his  eyes  sunken,  though  sparkling 
yet. 

"Let  me  see  my  men.  All  who  have  been  here 
since  they  were  boys!"  he  called  out.  His  voice 
was  not  so  loud  as  of  old,  though  very  clear.  He 
smiled  at  the  great  show  of  hands.  He  knew  the 
men  by  their  names,  and  their  histories  too,  and 
as  he  told  the  history  of  the  works  he  called  to 
them  for  confirmation.  "I'm  too  old  to  change 
now — many  of  us  are,"  he  told  them.  "I  want  my 
men  round  me  to  the  last — all  these  years  we've 
been  together " 

He  finished  amid  a  tumult  of  cheering.  A  com- 
mittee was  formed  at  his  suggestion  to  come  to 
him  and  talk  over  what  improved  conditions 
they  might  adopt  throughout  the  works.  John 
Allday  was  elected  to  represent  the  young  men 
among  the  fitters. 

Discontent  and  jealousy  existed,  as  everywhere, 
but  there  was  no  danger  of  a  strike.  Even  the 
firebrands  ceased  to  talk  of  it,  until  several  weeks 
later,  when  the  old  gentleman  was  taken  ill.  When 
he  was  gone,  the  works  would  belong  to  his  grand- 
son, who  never  came  down  from  London.  He 
would  probably  sell  the  place,  or  turn  it  into  a 
limited  company;  it  would  be  no  better  than  any- 
where else  then — worse,  perhaps.  The  men  dreaded 
that.  Some  talked  of  striking  at  once,  but  the  older 
men  quelled  them;  they  would  be  loyal  to  the  old 
gentleman  while  he  lived.  Every  morning  one  of 
the  foreman,  elected  specially,  went  up  to  the  house 
to  ask  how  the  master  was.  His  report  was  the 
greatest  topic  of  the  day. 

John's  mother  called  to  see  Maggie  occasionally. 

"It's  my  duty  to  cheer  her  up  a  bit,"  she  said. 
"There's  the  poor  thing  got  two  children  to  look 
after  and  feed,  and  herself  and  her  husband — and 
only  strike  pay  coming  in.  It's  a  shame!" 


202  LITTLE  HOUSES 

She  had  no  sympathy  for  the  strikers.  "They've 
brought  it  on  themselves,"  she  said  to  Sam,  and 
overcame  him  by  sheer  volubility.  When  she  went 
to  see  Maggie  she  put  away  her  hard  words,  and 
always  took  a  basket  of  good  things,  a  cake  specially 
baked,  or  other  dainties. 

She  bought  a  pig's  head  one  day,  and  made 
brawn — two  moulds,  one  of  them  to  take  to  Maggie. 
The  same  day  she  slipped  on  the  wet  stones  of 
the  yard,  and  John  had  to  go  on  the  morrow  to 
take  the  present. 

Maggie  could  scarcely  thank  him. 

"You're  too  good,"  she  repeated  several  times. 
"If  it  wasn't  for  the  children's  sakes,  I  should  be 
ashamed  to  accept  so  much." 

They  sat  talking  a  while.  John  took  the  little 
boy  on  his  knee  and  played  with  him. 

Presently  Sam  came  in,  nodded  to  John  curtly, 
and  sat  down  heavily  on  the  sofa. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Maggie. 

"Nothing,  of  course — starvation  to  face — that's 
nothing  T 

John  was  alarmed,  and  uncomfortable.  He  put 
the  boy  down,  and  took  his  hat  off  the  table,  ready 
to  go.  Sam  picked  up  something  from  the  rug. 

"Who's  throwing  sixpences  about  the  place?"  he 
said. 

The  little  boy  went  across  to  him,  and  held  up 
his  hand  for  the  coin. 

"I  gave  it  him  to  play  with,"  said  John,  and  he 
felt  his  ears  burning.  He  did  not  wish  them  to 
notice  the  sixpence  till  he  had  gone. 

Sam  held  it  out 

"Give  him  a  ha'penny  for  fun,  if  you  like.  We 
don't  want  charity." 

John  refused  to  take  it.  Sam  pressed  forward, 
holding  out  the  coin,  and  in  a  moment  Maggie 
plucked  it  from  his  fingers. 


THE  STRIKE  203 

"Don't  be  silly,  Sam— it's  the  child's!"  she  told 
him. 

He  was  silent  for  an  instant. 

"So  I'm  silly!"  he  said  quietly.  And  then  of  a 
sudden  his  anger  burst  out.  John  was  startled, 
then  angry,  and  in  a  moment  he  and  Sam  were 
shouting  at  each  other.  The  children  were  terrified. 

Then  John  perceived  Maggie's  face,  framed  as 
though  in  a  halo  of  mist,  and  he  was  startled  by 
the  intensity  of  its  suffering.  He  retreated,  and 
made  a  great  effort  to  choke  the  anger  in  his 
throat. 

"I'm  sorry,  Sam.  I  didn't  mean  any  harm,"  he 
said  huskily.  And  he  rushed  from  the  house. 

He  heard  Sam's  voice  calling  after  him  as  he 
went,  but  he  did  not  distinguish  the  words.  He 
dared  not  return;  he  could  not  trust  himself, 
even  with  the  recollection  of  Maggie's  face  implor- 
ing him. 

He  said  nothing  at  home,  and  went  out  on  his 
bicycle,  striving  to  forget  in  the  cool  air  of  dusk. 

When  he  returned  he  found  Sam  and  Maggie 
sitting  at  supper  with  his  mother  and  father.  Sam 
rose  and  came  across  to  him. 

"John,  old  boy,  I'm  a  villain.    Forgive  me !" 

They  shook  hands,  and  Mr.  Allday  began  to 
tell  one  of  his  old  stories  so  that  they  might 
forget.  Mrs.  Onions'  daughter  was  looking  after 
the  children,  so  Maggie  was  able  to  stay  a  while. 

Week  after  week  the  strike  went  on.  People 
not  directly  interested  began  to  look  upon  it  as 
a  monotonous  incident  which  had  lost  its  novelty; 
many  were  disappointed  because  it  had  not  pro- 
vided some  wild  sensation,  as  they  had  secretly 
hoped  it  would.  The  strikers  themselves  lost 
heart;  courage  is  most  difficult  to  keep  in  mere 
passivity.  At  first  the  district  committee  had 
good  news  at  every  weekly  meeting.  Reports 


204  LITTLE  HOUSES 

came  in  of  firms  conceding  the  men's  demands — 
very  few  of  these  reports  were  true.  One  real 
victory  in  Sunderland  gladdened  the  men's  hearts, 
but  it  was  one  only,  and  there  were  so  many  hopes 
which  came  to  naught.  Worst  of  all,  the  works 
were  not  empty — non-union  and  apprentice  labour 
kept  the  machinery  from  rusting.  The  master 
did  not  feel  the  pinch — their  daily  menu  was  the 
same — while  the  men  saw  their  children  crying  for 
the  dainties  which  were  now  beyond  price.  Bitter- 
ness and  discontent  grew  daily.  The  women 
talked  of  committee-men  growing  fat,  with  twelve 
shillings  a  day,  and  a  mere  nothing  to  do,  except 
to  encourage  the  men  to  live  with  their  families 
on  fifteen  shillings  a  week,  and  go  on  hoping.  The 
story  was  false,  yet  it  passed  for  truth  often,  with 
many  distortions.  The  men  began  to  turn  on  one 
another,  seeking  one  to  blame.  At  home  they  were 
gloomy  and  irritable.  The  old  happy  Saturday 
nights,  the  marketing,  the  Sunday  happiness,  the 
joint  for  dinner — all  that  was  gone. 

Sam  Bloom  came  one  day  when  only  Mrs.  Allday 
was  in.  He  broke  down  when  she  chided  him. 

"Oh,  what  a  shame!"  she  told  her  husband. 
"  'We  daren't  give  in,'  he  says.  I  could  ha'  cried. 
I  did." 

And  so  the  fight  went  on,  week  after  week. 

John  Allday's  luck  came  in  the  early  autumn. 
He  left  it  to  his  mother  to  tell  Sam  and  Maggie; 
he  was  ashamed  to  go  rejoicing  to  them  when  they 
could  not  rejoice.  His  father  had  to  seek  a  new 
investment  for  some  of  his  capital,  and  after  much 
talking,  and  thinking  by  the  fireside,  he  invested 
it  in  the  scrap-iron  business  in  which  they  already 
had  a  share. 

"I've  known  Joskins  since  he  was  a  lad,"  he  ex- 
plained at  the  family  council.  "He's  all  right,  but 
he's  got  no  capital  and  no  push.  There's  a  good 


THE  STRIKE  205 

thing  in  it.  You  can  stay  on  at  Binnses  till  the 
strike's  over,  and  things  settle  down — till  the  winter, 
anyway.  And  then  we'll  see  how  we  go." 

John  went  to  the  yard  one  dinner-time  when  the 
gates  were  being  repainted,  and  he  was  so  proud, 
and  so  anxious  to  see  the  sign  completed,  to  observe 
its  effect,  he  stayed  all  afternoon. 

It  made  a  grand  show : 

*     ••.".'  v 

JOSKINS  &  ALLDAY, 
MACHINERY  MERCHANTS. 
All  kinds  of  new  and  second-hand  Machinery. 

Steam  Engines,  Stamps,  Presses,  Shears,  and 
Metal  Working  Tools. 
Scrap  Iron  and  Steel. 

As  he  was  admiring  it  for  the  last  time  before 
going  home,  he  saw  Sam  Bloom  on  the  other  side 
of  the  road. 

"You  are  the  big  man  now,"  said  Sam,  when 
he  came  across.  "Do  you  want  to  take  any  hands 
on?" 

John  was  embarrassed. 

"Do  you  want  to  come  in?"  he  ventured. 

Sam  patted  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"Don't  patronize  me,  John!"  he  said.  "We've 
been  good  friends  a  long  while,  but  I  should  hate 
you  if  you  tried  that  on.  That's  your  way" — 
he  pointed  to  the  painted  gates — "mine's  in  the 
gutter  here.  I'm  a  striker,  a  rebel,  and  I've  got 
to  see  it  through.  By  God — nobody  seems  to 
notice !" 

John  was  too  bemused  to  reply  at  once.  He 
called  to  Sam  as  he  went  away,  but  Sam  strode 
on,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  never  turned. 
John  was  troubled;  for  a  while  the  pleasure  of 


206  LITTLE  HOUSES 

his  afternoon  was  gone;  then  came  pity,  bringing 
its  own  happiness. 

He  was  so  busy  at  the  yard  in  his  spare  time,  he 
was  not  often  at  the  Social  Club.  The  vicar 
and  his  curate  were  open  enemies  now;  every 
afternoon  tea  table  had  some  story  of  their  differ- 
ences, and  the  ladies  collected  these  tales  with  much 
more  zest  than  ever  they  had  in  the  collection  of 
old  china.  The  vicar  had  no  sympathy  with 
the  strikers — the  curate  had  much,  not  because  he 
upheld  their  cause,  or  their  employers' ;  they 
were  fellow  mortals  in  distress,  and  he  worked 
to  give  them  comfort;  he  opened  the  Social 
Club  during  the  day,  and  visited  constantly. 
Rumour  had  it  that  Mr.  Kingsnorton  was  inclined 
to  take  the  vicar's  view;  he  was  a  big  shareholder 
in  the  Selbridge  Iron  and  Steel  Company,  and  he 
believed  that  the  curate  was  encouraging  the  strikers 
to  hold  out.  John  heard  the  story  first  from  Mr. 
Benlow,  one  evening  he  was  there  to  supper. 

"You  see,  Mr.  Kingsnorton's  sympathies  can 
only  go  in  the  way  of  his  own  interests,"  said  Mr. 
Benlow.  "It's  perfectly  natural  for  us  to  imagine 
from  that  he  can't  be  pleased  with  Pettigo.  And 
Pettigo  wants  to  help  those  who  need  most  help — 
he  doesn't  ask  who  deserves  it.  I  heard  him  say 
once,  'I'm  not  a  judge — I  try  to  be  charitable  in- 
stead— it's  better.'  And  so  it  is,  but  it's  harder. 
He's  finding  that  out,  I'll  be  bound." 

"He'll  never  get  Barbara  Kingsnorton  to  see  it," 
said  Mrs.  Benlow. 

John  was  startled. 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Mr.  Benlow. 

"No  fear!"  exclaimed  Willie.  "She  told  me, 
not  so  very  long  ago,  she  believed  you  could  do 
a  lot  too  much  for  the  proletariat.  It's  true,  you 
can — they're  a  thankless  lot.  He's  a  nice  fellow, 
Pettigo — not  half  bad — but  I'm  afraid  he's  finding 


THE  STRIKE  207 

himself  on  the  rocks.  That  reminds  me.  Guess 
whom  I  saw  the  other  day?  I  forgot  to  tell  you. 
Frank  Hurst — Barbara  Kingsnorton's  old  in- 
amorata. He  passed  me  on  a  bicycle.  I'm  sure 
it  was  Hurst.  I  shouted  after  him,  but  he  took  no 
notice — and  he  must  have  known  it  was  me — he 
didn't  want  to  see  me,  I  reckon.  I  saw  Barbara 
Kingsnorton,  too,  the  same  afternoon — not  the  two 
together,  mind  you;  all  the  same,  you  know,  it 
made  me  think." 

John  was  wretched  all  the  evening. 

It  was  several  days  later,  at  sundown,  he  saw 
Barbara  Kingsnorton  pass  the  house  on  her  bicycle. 
Impulsively  he  prepared  to  set  out  after  her.  A 
tire  had  to  be  blown  up,  and  he  had  to  get  his  lamp, 
so  that  he  lost  time,  and  it  was  long  before  he  came 
in  sight  of  her.  Then  he  was  ashamed.  He  told 
himself  he  had  no  right  to  spy,  and  he  was  afraid — 
it  were  better  not  to  know.  When  he  had  turned 
back,  and  it  was  too  late  to  follow,  he  was  tor- 
mented miserably. 

He  had  set  up  Barbara's  image  as  his  idol,  in  a 
shrine  of  his  own  delights.  Now  he  dared  not 
enter.  Fear  stood  at  the  door,  with  doubt  on  the 
other  side.  The  lamp  was  dim,  and  flickering 
shadows  filled  the  place. 


CHAPTER  Y 

STRESS 

THE  Virginia  creeper,  of  which  Mrs.  Onions 
was  so  proud,  turned  from  the  summer 
green  to  rich  crimson  against  the  garden 
wall,  and  the  robins  flitted  across  the  gardens  on 
shortened  misty  afternoons.  The  first  snow  came, 
white  herald  of  winter — only  a  little  fall,  a  fore- 
taste for  the  season.  It  came  after  a  red  lowering 
dawn,  with  mottled  clouds  gathering,  swept  into 
a  dull  leaden  mass  by  the  east  wind,  bitterly  cold. 
Then  of  a  sudden  the  snow  was  gently  driven  across 
the  air,  faster  and  faster,  and  whirling  in  the  eddies. 
The  hens  all  made  for  the  pen,  except  one,  a  white 
one,  and  then  it  dashed  to  and  fro  before  the  wire 
netting  in  desperation  to  get  in,  and  too  excited 
to  remember  that  the  opening  was  farther  on.  The 
last  chrysanthemums  nodded  with  their  load  of 
wet.  The  holly  bushes  became  real  Christmas 
bushes,  white  powdered,  with  berries  glinting  red. 
The  storm  was  over  in  an  hour,  all  the  snow  melted, 
and  the  soil  black  and  sodden;  the  hens  were  out 
again,  pecking  across  the  ragged  gardens.  But  the 
first  snow  had  fallen — winter  was  in. 

The  strikers  were  out  still,  doggedly  resolved  to 
starve  rather  than  give  in.  Very  few  had  any  hope 
of  victory  now;  they  had  lost  so  much,  they 
would  never  make  up  the  wages  lost;  many  had 
lost  courage,  and  energy  too;  only  the  strength 

208 


STRESS  209 

of  passivity  remained.  One  of  the  members  of 
the  Social  Club,  a  striker,  explained  to  Mr.  Pettigo 
that  he  was  learning  to  be  a  very  good  player  at 
draughts,  and  that  was  all  the  good  the  strike  was 
likely  to  do  him.  From  despair  the  men  were  pass- 
ing to  indifference. 

Maggie  Bloom's  pride  was  grievously  hurt  in 
accepting  so  much  charity,  especially  from  Mrs. 
Allday  and  John.  She  would  have  starved  rather 
than  accept  it  for  herself,  but  she  could  not  let 
the  children  suffer.  And  she  knew  there  were 
many  worse  than  she.  Every  week,  when  Sam 
went  to  the  district  meeting,  the  day  the  strike 
pay  was  distributed,  there  was  a  collection  for 
those  who  had  large  families,  young  children  to 
feed,  and  doctors'  bills  to  pay.  Sam  gave  willingly, 
although  he  could  not  afford  to  give,  and  Maggie 
never  complained.  John  Allday  had  no  knowledge 
of  the  depth  of  her  pride's  suffering.  She  had 
nothing  to  give  in  return,  save  her  own  devotion, 
and  that  was  so  easily  given,  and  so  willingly,  it 
seemed  to  her  as  nothing. 

It  was  more  and  more  difficult  to  make  ends 
meet,  and  she  would  not  let  herself  get  into  debt — 
she  would  have  had  no  mental  peace.  Sam  laughed 
at  her  punctiliousness,  though  secretly  he  was  proud 
of  her;  but  his  moods  were  as  uncertain  as  a  bat's 
flight  at  dusk.  Maggie  grew  afraid  when  he  was 
gloomy.  Once  he  talked  of  suicide,  and  terrified 
her.  She  did  her  best  to  cheer  him,  but  her  worries 
made  her  irritable  at  times,  and  sharp  words  slipped 
out  so  glibly  and  so  thoughtlessly,  and  were  so 
difficult  to  recall. 

In  his  worst  moods  Sam  railed  against  the  whole 
fabric  of  society,  and  startled  Maggie  with  his 
violence.  Occasionally  he  came  home  drunk  and 
then  would  follow  a  fierce  repentance.  He  would 
hand  all  his  strike  pay  to  Maggie,  and  receive 


210  LITTLE  HOUSES 

only  a  shilling  from  her  for  himself — and  out  of 
that  he  would  save  coppers  for  the  children's 
money-box  on  the  mantelpiece. 

His  grandfather  had  no  patience  with  his  views. 
The  old  man  was  not  able  to  climb  the  hill  now, 
he  had  not  breath  enough.  Sam  did  not  often  go 
to  see  him.  Since  the  beginning  of  the  strike 
the  visits  had  ended  in  high  words.  Sam  had  been 
worried  afterwards,  and  in  repentance,  taking 
Maggie's  advice,  he  had  returned  to  crave  the  old 
man's  pardon,  only  to  come  back  to  Maggie  more 
angry  than  before.  "He's  too  old — I  can't  explain 
anything  to  him — he  won't  listen  to  anything,"  he 
said.  Maggie  always  went  to  Otter  Lane  when 
she  was  in  the  town,  and  had  time  to  call.  The 
old  man  was  always  pleased  to  see  her.  He  liked 
Maggie,  and  was  very  kind  to  the  children,  although 
they  were  afraid  of  him.  Maggie  never  failed  to 
plead  for  Sam,  and  came  back  worried  after  every 
visit,  her  only  gladness  being  in  the  thought  of 
duty  done.  The  image  of  the  old  man  haunted 
her  for  hours  after  she  had  left — he  was  so  bent 
and  withered,  his  flesh  colourless,  his  voice  quaver- 
ing, thin,  and  reedy,  and  his  breathing  like  the 
sighing  of  a  night  wind  in  a  ruined  house — he  no 
longer  seemed  to  be  human,  like  herself.  He  often 
talked  of  God,  in  a  queer  familiar  way,  as  though 
he  knew  Him  well — "As  though  He  lived  next 
door,"  said  Sam.  .  .  .  "I'm  so  near  the  Master 
now,"  he  explained.  "Every  day  I  listen  for  the 
call — it  won't  be  long."  Maggie  felt  a  choking  in 
her  throat,  and  then  tears  starting. 

Every  night  she  prayed  for  the  strike  to  end, 
and  for  Sam  to  succeed,  for  the  children's  sakes. 
She  prayed  earnestly,  and  as  humbly  as  though 
she  had  dared  to  ask  for  half  the  world  to  be  given 
into  her  keeping.  Sam  never  prayed  now,  and 
sometimes  she  said  her  prayers  secretly  in  bed, 


STRESS  211 

because  he  scoffed,  and  she  couldn't  bear  to  hear 
it.  By  and  by  she  began  to  doubt — she  had  prayed 
hard,  and  God  didn't  seem  to  listen. 

She  said  to  Mrs.  Onions  one  day :  "I'm  sure  I've 
prayed  often  enough  for  the  strike  to  end." 

"Ah,  my  dear — prayers  don't  seem  to  work  now- 
adays," said  Mrs.  Onions.  "Perhaps  they  never 
did.  Perhaps  it's  because  when  you're  praying  for 
one  thing,  somebody  else  is  sure  to  be  praying 
for  th'  opposite,  and  your  prayers  just  knock  one 
another's  heads  off.  I  know  Mrs.  Banks  now — 
she  prayed  night  and  day  for  a  boy  when  she  was 
going  to  have  her  first,  and  she  was  a  good  un  at 
it — practised  at  the  Wesleyan  prayer  meetings — 
and  it  was  a  girl.  It  was  more — she  had  three 
girls  in  succession.  'I  ain't  going  to  pray  again,' 
she  told  me,  'and  I  ain't  going  to  have  any  more 
either.'  And  she  hasn't.  .  .  .  All  the  same,  I  must 
say  as  it  does  relieve  you,  now  and  again,  to  say 
your  prayers." 

"Like  swearing,  to  let  the  steam  off,"  suggested 
Mr.  Onions,  who  had  been  listening. 

Maggie  laughed.  She  would  have  been  shocked, 
a  while  before. 

She  ceased  to  pray.  Then  she  felt  guilty,  and 
recommenced;  but  the  intensity  was  gone;  she  did 
it  as  a  duty,  without  hope. 

At  the  end  of  November  the  baby  was  taken  ill 
—bronchitis  was  threatened.  Maggie  was  unwell, 
and  found  it  hard  to  keep  up.  Her  nights  were 
broken ;  she  woke  with  horrid  starts,  and  lay  dis- 
tressed by  the  baby's  coughing;  and  time  after  time 
she  had  to  jump  out  of  bed  to  put  the  child 
straight  in  her  cradle,  and  cover  her  up  warm. 
Food  had  to  be  prepared.  Downstairs  the  morning 
fire  had  to  be  lit,  in  the  cold,  a  thin  draught  blowing 
under  the  door,  her  legs  shivering,  for  she  hurried 
about  half  dressed.  She  began  to  cough  too. 


212  LITTLE  HOUSES 

And  this  was  only  the  beginning  of  the  winter,  she 
told  herself  in  despair. 

December  came  in.  The  weather  had  been  very 
stormy  for  a  week,  the  winds  driving  the  wateV 
streaming  from  the  overflowing  gutters  on  the 
roofs.  Then  the  skies  cleared;  the  moon  was  up 
early,  and  there  was  frost.  To-day  was  fine,  with 
a  little  wind  stirring,  bitter  cold.  The  hoar  frost 
melted  on  twigs  and  palings,  and  the  drops  fell  to 
make  patterns  on  the  rime  below,  until  it  was  gone, 
and  the  earth  seemed  to  exude  water  everywhere. 
The  last  pansies  and  chrysanthemums  lay  be- 
draggled in  sheltered  corners  in  the  gardens;  red 
daisies  and  auriculas  had  rashly  ventured  out,  and 
here  was  the  frost  coming.  The  sun  had  a  red  face, 
and  there  were  no  distant  hills. 

Maggie  wept  as  she  moved  to  and  fro  about  the 
house  and  strove  to  work  to  keep  herself  from 
thought.  Her  reflection  in  the  overmantel  glass 
startled  her;  she  had  smeared  her  face  with  black 
marks,  in  brushing  away  her  tears.  Sam  had  been 
in  a  bad  humour  when  he  came  downstairs.  Maggie 
had  a  headache  and  was  irritable;  she  suffered 
constantly  from  headaches  now.  The  quarrel 
had  been  very  short,  though  bitter  enough,  and  she 
wept  at  the  recollection  of  her  sudden  flash  of 
temper.  She  had  been  exasperated,  she  declared, 
before  her  own  accusing  self.  And  now  she  accused 
Sam  of  indifference  and  of  selfishness.  "You 
needn't  expect  me  in  to  dinner,"  he  had  told  her 
as  he  went  moodily  out  of  the  house.  She  hoped 
fervently  he  would  repent.  The  thought  of  dinner 
worried  her;  she  did  not  know  what  to  prepare. 
As  the  time  drew  near,  and  her  fears  told  her  he 
would  keep  his  word,  she  resolved  to  have  a  cup 
of  tea  and  some  toast.  When  Sam  came  she  would 
cook  dinner — it  might  help  him  to  forget. 

He  did  not  come.     She  gave  the  children  their 


STRESS  213 

dinner,  and  put  them  to  bed  for  their  midday  sleep, 
the  little  boy  with  a  white  fluffy  dog  in  his  arms  to 
comfort  him,  a  present  from  Uncle  John,  his  sister 
with  a  rag  doll.  They  cried  a  long  while  to-day 
before  sleep  came.  Then  at  last  Maggie  made  her 
pot  of  tea;  she  was  too  listless  to  make  toast — 
the  fire  was  not  suitable — she  had  forgotten  it  in 
attending  to  the  children.  She  didn't  want  to  eat, 
she  was  too  wretched,  too  lonely. 

She  sat  a  while  after  her  tea ;  she  had  no  energy 
to  work.  Presently  her  thoughts  stirred.  This  was 
the  same  room  in  which  she  had  lived  as  a  girl: 
she  remembered  how  the  cupboard  door  had  swung 
out  above  her  head,  and  then  against  her  face — 
how  many  long  years  ago?  And  now  her  babies 
played  here;  these  toys,  scattered  about  the  floor, 
were  their's.  Would  she  be  here  all  her  days,  and 
never  rise?  Hope  was  dying.  Her  mother  used 
to  sit  here,  in  this  same  chair,  resting  after  dinner, 
while  she  ran  off  to  school,  after  doing  reluctant 
housework.  She  never  heard  from  her  sister  now. 
She  had  married  badly,  and  Maggie  had  despised 
her  for  it.  How  bitterly  Fate  had  punished  her, 
thought  Maggie ;  and  slowly  in  souvenirs  of  misfor- 
tune her  thoughts  came  to  John  Allday.  What  a 
long,  raging  disappointment  had  been  her's  when 
she  had  waited  for  him,  after  Binnses'  bonfire,  when 
she  had  kept  her  sixpence  to  spend  with  him.  He 
had  not  been  able  to  come — he  hadn't  tried  as  she 
would  have  tried.  She  recollected  how  she  had 
startled  him  with  her  kiss — she  recollected  so 
vividly — and  then  of  a  sudden  she  felt  herself  go 
hot  with  shame.  Yet  she  could  not  stay  the  fierce 
ardour  of  her  thoughts ;  she  had  no  strength  to  try. 
But  in  a  little  while  her  sorrow  came  again.  One 
night,  under  frosty  stars,  so  many  years  ago,  it 
seemed,  Sam  had  told  her,  "I'm  a  wild  creature, 
Maggie,  but  I'll  do  my  best,"  and  he  had  held  her 


214  LITTLE  HOUSES 

in  his  arms  tight,  and  carried  her  over  the  ice- 
barred  water  of  a  sunken  lane.  He  had  loved  her 
then ;  his  heart  had  startled  her,  thumping  against  her 
breast.  Perhaps  he  had  done  his  best,  she  thought 
wistfully,  and  her  sympathy  went  out  to  seek  him. 
Perhaps  she  had  brought  him  misfortune.  She 
would  have  brought  John  misfortune,  maybe,  and 
John  was  destined  for  success.  .  .  . 

The  children  cried.  She  had  to  go  to  them 
and  get  them  up — there  was  no  more  time  for 
thought. 

She  had  not  been  out  to-day,  so  she  walked  up 
and  down  in  the  garden  to  give  the  children  the 
fresh  air.  She  did  not  like  to  go  away  from  the 
house,  lest  Sam  should  return  soon.  His  delay  in- 
creased her  anxiety.  The  smoke  from  the  chim- 
neys rose  straight  in  the  air,  and  then  drifted  gently 
over  to  the  south-west;  the  tinv  breeze  seemed  to 
bite  like  a  great  rushing  wind.  The  sun  went  down 
in  a  lurid  haze,  and  the  sky's  western  hue  faded 
rapidly  to  the  cold  blue  of  night.  The  moon  was 
up,  a  pale  silver  fragment  in  the  heavens.  The  baby 
cried,  and  Maggie  had  to  take  her  indoors — she 
couldn't  keep  warm. 

She  had  no  appetite,  though  she  was  faint  from 
want  of  food.  Her  tea  revived  her.  She  was  sit- 
ting after  it,  tormented  by  her  anxiety  for  Sam, 
when  John  Allday  came. 

"I've  brought  you  a  chicken,"  he  announced.  "I 
thought  it  would  be  nice,  especially  for  you  and 
the  children — nice  and  light,  you  know—do  you 
good.  Mother  told  me  you  weren't  very  well — she 
hoped  you  would  be  better." 

Maggie  protested  that  he  was  too  good  to  them. 

"Bless  your  life,  it's  nothing!"  he  assured  her. 
"I  just  thought  I  would  bring  it.  I've  taken  one 
home.  You  know,  Maggie,  I'm  doing  very  well 
— this  new  place  of  ours  is  going  like  one  o'clock. 


STRESS  215 

I  don't  think  I  shall  see  the  New  Year  at  Binnses. 
I'm  so  busy — and  there's  a  difference  in  profit,  I 
can  tell  you,  working  for  your  own  self." 

Maggie  suffered  a  throe  of  bitterness.  It  was 
gone  in  an  instant.  She  knew  that  John  would 
never  boast  to  cause  her  humiliation. 

He  stayed  only  a  few  moments.  The  children 
were  disappointed,  especially  the  boy;  he  always 
expected  Uncle  John  to  play  with  him.  Maggie 
played  to  comfort  them,  and  for  a  while  forgot 
everything  but  their  pleasure.  It  was  the  first  time 
to-day  she  had  joined  in  their  fun  with  zest.  She 
kept  them  up  long  after  their  usual  bedtime. 

"Father  will  be  here  in  a  minute  or  two,"  she 
told  them. 

He  came  at  last.  She  was  very  tired,  and  faint 
with  anxiety.  "Thank  God!"  she  exclaimed,  when 
she  heard  his  footsteps  outside.  But  when  he  came 
in,  she  was  afraid — he  was  not  sober. 

He  saw  her  fear,  and  bullied  to  hide  his  shame: 

"Well?     You've  seen  me  before,  I  hope." 

"Yes!"  she  said  bitterly — "like  you  are  now.  I 
have — God  forgive  me!" 

"That's  nice  for  a  welcome,  that  is !  God  forgive 
you  for  what?" 

"For  despising  you !" 

She  heard  her  own  words,  and  was  horrified, 
even  in  the  swift,  incalculable  instant  before  they 
were  uttered.  They  seemed  to  be  spoken  by  another 
self  than  her's.  She  knew  instantly  how  useless 
it  would  be  to  try  to  change  them,  and  she  was 
afraid  of  her  own  anger  and  her  tears.  The 
children's  bath  was  on  the  hearth,  and  she  busied 
herself  with  their  preparations  for  bed. 

Sam  astonished  her  with  silence.  When,  after  a 
while,  he  spoke,  he  startled  her. 

"What's  that  thing— that?  Who's  brought 
it?" 


216  LITTLE  HOUSES 

She  looked  in  the  direction  of  his  finger's 
pointing. 

"You  needn't  call  it  that  thing,"  she  said,  stung 
by  his  tone.  "You  can  see  it's  a  chicken.  John 
Allday  brought  it." 

"What — him?"  exclaimed  Sam  furiously. 
"I'll  throw  the  damned  thing  away!  I  won't 
have  his  damned  charity — his  damned  charity! 
D'y'ear?" 

He  rose  unsteadily.  Maggie  had  the  baby  in  the 
bath,  and  could  not  move. 

"Sit  down,  and  behave  yourself!"  she  com- 
manded. 

To  her  surprise  he  obeyed,  and  he  said  not  an- 
other word.  She  was  afraid  of  him  then ;  his  silence 
was  more  ominous  than  rage. 

Sam's  inner  self  was  torn  in  conflict  of  black 
anger  and  shame.  He  had  spent  precious  money 
in  public-houses.  His  quarrel  with  Maggie  in  the 
morning  had  tormented  him  all  day,  in  fits  of  anger 
against  her,  and  remorse,  and  wild  wretchedness; 
and  drink  after  drink  had  only  deepened  his  misery 
and  his  formless  raging. 

He  had  met  the  district  secretary  of  the  union 
in  the  morning,  and  had  had  drinks  with  him.  The 
fatal  words  seemed  to  be  eaten  into  his  memory: 

"Our  executive  council  knew  from  the  first  that 
the  thing  would  be  an  inevitable  failure;  but  tfie 
extremists,  the  London  men,  got  the  upper  hand 
of  the  society,  and  determined  to  fight  the  em- 
ployers at  once,  and  get  an  eight-hour  day,  or  at 
least  to  show  'em  their  determination  to  get  it  later, 
if  not  now." 

Sam  had  promised  secrecy  before  he  was  told  the 
news.  The  men  did  not  know. 

"We  daren't  tell  it  yet,"  the  secretary  had  said, 
"and  we  daren't  give  in  yet  We  must  try  to  make 
some  terms." 


STRESS  217 

In  his  disillusion  and  his  anger  Sam  had  been 
near  to  tears.  As  he  thought  now  of  the  words, 
his  fists  clenched,  and  he  heard  himself  growl — he 
knew  the  sound  to  be  that  of  a  man  who  had  been 
drinking,  and  had  lost  control  of  his  faculties.  He 
watched  his  own  drunken  self,  without  force  to 
check  it. 

When  Maggie  was  gone  with  the  children  he 
rose  and  went  softly  to  listen  to  them  upstairs.  He 
had  not  kissed  them  "good  night";  they  had  been 
afraid,  and  had  not  called  him.  In  his  blind 
disappointment  he  said  that  Maggie  was  teaching 
them  to  hate  him.  As  he  turned  from  the  door  he 
perceived  the  chicken  on  a  dish  on  the  table,  and 
he  trembled  with  a  hot  burst  of  jealousy.  John 
Allday,  flaunting  his  new  prosperity,  had  been 
here  with  his  charity,  patronizing  him,  scorning 
him.  "Afraid  to  come  when  I'm  in!"  he  cried  in 
silent  anguish,  and  shouted  down  in  thought 
the  protest  of  his  inner  self.  A  wild  desire  came 
to  throw  away  the  chicken,  to  destroy  it — he  would 
not  have  the  fellow's  charity.  He  crossed  to  the 
table;  but  he  had  not  the  insane  courage  for  the 
deed — he  was  afraid. 

His  glance  moved  guiltily  about  the  room.  There 
was  a  little  pile  of  coppers  on  the  mantelpiece. 
Without  a  thought  he  obeyed  the  fierce  impulse 
which  urged  him  to  take  them.  He  listened.  Only 
his  heart-beats  sounded  in  the  quiet  house.  Then 
he  opened  the  cupboard,  took  a  jug,  and  went  out 
softly  at  the  back  door. 

He  was  back  again,  with  the  jug  half  filled  with 
beer  on  the  table  before  him,  when  Maggie  came 
downstairs.  Kind  words  would  have  brought  him 
to  passionate  remorse,  for  of  all  his  black  mood 
there  remained  only  the  truculent  brutality  of 
shame. 

Maggie  was  startled  by  the  sight  of  the  jug. 


218  LITTLE  HOUSES 

"You  haven't  been  out  getting  beer?"  she 
exclaimed,  distressed  by  the  thought  of  the  money 
wasted. 

"D'you  think  it's  milk?"  he  said,  blustering. 

"But  where  did  you  get  the  money  from?" 

"Off  the  shelf.     It's  my  money." 

He  took  up  the  jug,  and  drank. 

"What?"  she  cried.  "Oh!  Not  that?  Not  that? 
It's  to  pay  the  bread  bill!" 

"Don't  pay !"  he  said  roughly. 

Maggie  sank  into  the  easy  chair,  and  burst  into 
tears. 

"God  help  us!"  she  cried. 

He  was  afraid  of  her  sobbing,  and  had  to  sum- 
mon all  his  brutality  to  save  him  from  remorse. 

"As  if  God'll  hear  you  if  you  make  that  row, 
or  any  other  row!"  he  told  her.  Fear  lashed  him 
to  rage.  "You  should  be  rejoicing  because  you're 
poor — that's  what  the  Church  tells  you,  don't  it? 
Christ  was  poor,  so  that  He  could  feel  for  us, 
understand  our  sufferings — quite  so — and  what  has 
His  Church  done  for  us?  Told  us  to  bear  our 
poverty,  because  it's  a  holy  thing,  because  Christ 
was  poor.  Is  that  any  consolation?  As  soon  as 
the  poor  come  to  understand — Christianity  dies. 
The  Devil's  advice  is  better." 

He  stood  up  and  shouted  to  prevent  her  speech": 

"Who's  your  true  churchman?  The  rich,  of 
course.  Here's  money  for  the  Church.  Go  and 
preach  consolation  to  the  poor,  and  keep  'em  poor 
— don't  let  'em  get  dissatisfied.  Promise  'em 
Heaven,  as  much  as  you  like,  but  no  Earth.  Give 
'em  charity — never  refuse  charity — but  wrap  it  up 
in  humiliation.  Look  at  John  Allday,  coming  here 
with  his  damned  charity!" 

Maggie  shouted  him  down: 

"He's  better  than  you  this  minute!  I  wish  to 
God  you  were  like  him!" 


STRESS  219 

The  unexpected  retaliation  startled  him,  and 
added  to  his  rage;  his  whole  self  trembled  in  its 
horrid  passion. 

"I  dare  say — I  dare  say  you  do!"  he  cried,  all 
his  bitterness  going  into  the  repetition.  "He's 
here  a  damned  sight  too  often  for  an  honest 
man." 

Maggie's  face  flushed  a  dark  crimson. 

"Can't  I  read  it  in  your  own  face?"  he  cried. 
And  as  a  new  jealousy  surged  in  him,  torturing 
him,  he  raised  his  clenched  fists  and  advanced  upon 
her. 

"You— you " 

A  mist  came  before  his  eyes.  His  tongue 
stuttered.  Horrible  words  rose  in  his  thoughts, 
but  some  force  seemed  yet  to  hold  them  back. 
Maggie  stood  by  the  table,  very  close  to  him  now, 
her  face  suddenly  gone  white  and  haggard. 

"You— you " 

"Coward!"  she  said  quietly. 

The  word  struck  him  like  a  great  pain.  He 
shouted  incoherently,  and  swung  his  fist.  It  fell 
with  a  soft  thud  on  her  neck,  and  the  chair  went 
clattering  on  the  fender  as  she  dropped. 

For  an  instant  he  stood  shut  in  a  wild  agony  of 
horror.  Then  he  was  beside  her,  lifting  her  ten- 
derly in  his  arms. 

"Maggie !  Maggie !  Darling !"  he  called,  sobbing. 
His  tears  fell  on  her  face  as  he  kissed  her,  pas- 
sionately calling  her  to  life.  .  .  . 

Upstairs  the  children  wailed,  startled  out  of  their 
first  sleep.  .  .  . 

He  loved  her,  she  knew,  in  his  own  wild  fashion, 
and  he  was  her's,  as  she  was  his,  indissolubly. 
When  they  went  to  bed,  early  lest  they  might  be- 
come too  hungry  after  their  scanty  meal,  he  slept 
almost  at  once,  lying  nestled  against  her  like  a  chifd. 
Her  arm  grew  benumbed  about  his  neck,  but  she 


220  LITTLE  HOUSES 

bore  the  discomfort,  lest  in  moving  she  might  rouse 
him — and  she  was  long  awake.  The  night  was  cold. 
Along  the  railway  bank  the  telegraph  wires  hummed 
in  eerie  monotone.  The  roofs  glittered  like  bur- 
nished steel  under  the  low  moon. 


CHAPTER  VI 

WINTER 

SAM  awoke,  in  Maggie's  arms.  The  night  was 
very  dark,  darker  than  when  they  had  come 
to  bed — the  moon  was  gone  down  long  ago. 
A  cock  crowed  hoarsely  to  announce  the  coming 
dawn.  Maggie  was  asleep,  breathing  very  gently; 
once  she  gave  a  little  moan.  Sam  feared  to  move; 
he  wanted  her  to  sleep,  to  take  all  the  rest  she  could. 
Presently  the  baby  stirred,  and  said  "Mam — mam" 
quietly,  and  whimpered  a  little,  the  sound  falling  to 
silence  like  a  tiny  voice  heard  far  away.  Sam  felt 
a  thrill  of  happiness.  Then  gradually  his  thoughts 
faded,  and  he  fell  asleep  again. 

At  breakfast  they  talked  quietly  of  the  new  start 
they  would  make.  Sam  was  determined  to  leave 
the  union.  "I  might  start  on  my  own,  before 
very  long,  like  John  Allday,"  said  he.  "There's 
the  bicycle  trade,  for  instance.  .  .  ."  His  quick 
fancy  was  full  of  schemes,  and  Maggie  was  as  eager 
to  listen  as  he  to  talk.  They  were  happy  this  morrf- 
ing,  courteous  to  each  other  as  they  had  not  been 
for  months — it  was  like  a  holiday  morning,  they 
said. 

There  was  to  be  a  meeting  of  the  district  com- 
mittee and  the  men  to-night  at  Selbridge. 

"I  don't  intend  to  go  behind  their  backs," 
Sam  explained  emphatically.  "I'm  going  to  tell 
'em  straight  what  the  secretary  told  me — I  know 

22J 


222  LITTLE  HOUSES 

I  promised  him  I  wouldn't,  but  it's  the  men's  turn 
to  be  considered  first — and  then  I'm  going  to  tell 
'em  what  I  think  o'  the  whole  thing.  To-morrow 
I  shall  be  back  at  work.  If  they  won't  start  me, 
I'll  go  on  the  railway,  or  I'll  go  to  Binnses;  I  can 
get  on  there,  I  know.  .  .  ." 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  old  lady,"  he  said,  after 
breakfast.  "I'll  take  the  gun  and  go  out  for  a 
long  walk,  and  think  things  out  a  bit,  get  my  ideas 
all  shipshape,  ready  for  action.  I  might  have  a  bit 
of  luck,  bag  a  couple  of  rabbits  or  something." 

"What  about  the  chicken?"  said  Maggie. 

"Well,  I  might  not  be  back  early,  and  we  don't 
want  it  to  spoil,  waiting,  do  we?  I'll  take  some- 
thing to  eat  in  my  pocket,  and  we'll  have  the  chicken 
to-night — dine  at  quality  hours.  What  do  you 
think?" 

"If  you  like." , 

She  cut  some  cheese  sandwiches  for  him,  and 
made  a  packet  of  them  for  his  coat.  He  had  only 
three-pennyworth  of  powder  in  the  old  flask. 

"I  must  be  like  the  Frenchman — not  shoot  at  the 
running  birds — wait  till  they  stop,"  said  he. 

He  had  made  the  worn  old  joke  many  a  time. 
This  morning  it  was  like  a  new  one. 

He  was  nearly  ready  to  go  when  Mrs.  Onions 
came  in,  excited  with  her  news: 

"Poor  Old  Gentleman  Binns  is  gone  at  last!" 

"What — not  dead?"  said  Maggie. 

"This  very  minute." 

"What  do  you  mean — this  minute?"  said  Sam. 

Mrs.  Onions  was  disconcerted.  She  hated  ex- 
actitude in  narrative. 

"Well,  he  was  dying  this  morning,  first  thing, 
not  expected  to  last  the  day.  That's  as  true  as  I 
stand  here.  The  milkman — not  our  milkman — him 
as  comes  to  Smith's — he's  told  Mrs.  Smith,  and  he 
come  past  Binnses  this  morning.  'Any  minute  he'll 


WINTER  223 

be  gone,'  he  says.     So  you  may  be  sure  he's  just 
about  gone  and  done  it." 

"Poor  old  gentleman!"  said  Maggie. 

"Rich  old  gentleman,  you  mean!"  said  Mrs. 
Onions,  with  a  snort.  "I  should  like  a  couple  of 
handfuls  o'  what  he's  left — and  they  wouldn't  Se 
missed." 

"What  about  the  works  now?"  said  Sam. 
"That's  off,  Maggie.  It'll  never  be  the  same 
again." 

"Just  what  Mr.  Onions  was  saying  last  night," 
agreed  Mrs.  Onions.  "  'There'll  never  be  another 
place  like  that,'  he  says." 

"Never,"  said  Sam.  "There  may  be  as  goocT, 
better  even,  some  day,  mind  you,  in  the  future, 
but  not  on  the  same  basis.  There'll  have  to  be 
a  mutual  loyalty  created;  there's  none  now — it's 
dead;  it  was  due  to  ignorance,  perhaps.  All  the 
same,  I  aren't  sure  if  it  wasn't  better  than  the 
distrust  and  jealousy  of  short-sighted  intelligence  " 

Mrs.  Onions  didn't  understand. 

"Ah — true  enough!     You're  talking  now,"  she* 
said  impressively.     "Sure,  it's  all  th'  old  uns  gone 
now,  except  your  grandfather,  and  him  th'  oldest 
o'  the  lot.     He'll  feel  it  when  he  hears,  I  know." 

"I  might  call  and  break  it  to  him.  It  isn't  tne 
news  to  throw  at  a  man  his  age." 

"Yes — you  go,  Sam;  I  should  like  you  to," 
said  Maggie.  "He'll  be  pleased  to  see  you,  I'm 
sure." 

Mrs.  Onions  sat  down  on  the  sofa  and  prepared 
to  give  up  the  whole  morning  to  the  memory  of 
Old  Gentleman  Binns.  Sam  kissed  the  children, 
and  then  Maggie,  and  laughed  at  Mrs.  Onions' 
surprise.  Then  he  left  the  house,  and  walked 
rapidly  down  the  hill. 

His  grandfather  was  still  in  bed  when  he  arrived. 

"I  went  up  a  minute  ago,  and  he  was  asleep," 


224  LITTLE  HOUSES 

said  the  housekeeper.  "I'll  wake  him  if  you  wan! 
to  see  him  special." 

"No,  it  doesn't  matter.  You  can  tell  him  I  called. 
I  wanted  to  tell  him  about  Old  Gentleman  Binns — 
he's  very  near  gone,  I  hear.  I  don't  want  my 
grandfather  to  get  a  shock." 

"Bless  your  life,  Mister  Sam,  there's  no  shock 
he'll  get.  I  was  telling  him  the  very  latest  news 
o'  the  old  gentleman  when  I  took  him  his  cup  o' 
tea  this  morning.  I  had  a  big  argument  wi'  Mrs. 
Brewer  next  door  yesterday  as  th'  old  gentleman 
wouldn't  last  the  day  out,  an'  she  wanted  to  crow 
over  me  because  he's  done  it,  as  if  an  hour  or  two 
over  makes  any  difference.  .  .  ." 

She  was  aggressively  loquacious. 

"My  grandfather  is  asleep,  you  say?"  said  Sam. 

"Yes — he  sleeps  best  part  of  his  time,  dozing 
and  dozing.  He's  lived  so  long,  you  see,  there 
ain't  anything  new  to  keep  the  life  in  him.  Life's 
the  same  thing,  over  and  over,  work  and  worry, 
and  disappointment,  with  a  bit  o'  pleasure  now  and 
again  to  keep  you  at  it — ain't  it,  Mister  Sam  ?  He's 
tired  out,  poor  soul — and  so  he  sleeps,  hour  after 
hour,  dozing  away  in  his  chair,  scarcely  ever  a  word 
to  say.  I'm  afraid  he  ain't  for  long  now,  Mister 
Sam.  It  don't  seem  natural  to  see  him — all  th'  old 
uns  took  in  turn,  and  him  forgot — an'  scarcely  a 
breath  o'  life  in  him,  only  now  and  again.  He 
talks  to  himself  sometimes — it  sounds  just  as 
though  there  was  something  in  there  with  him,  a 
something  we  couldn't  see,  unnatural." 

Sam  was  conscious  of  the  odour  of  whisky. 

He  looked  round  the  room,  so  untidy  now,  so 
dear  to  him  in  the  recollections  which  Time  had 
gilded.  He  had  not  been  happy  here  as  a  boy 
not  often,  nor  as  a  young  man;  yet  it  had  been  all 
he  knew  of  home.  His  grandfather's  long  church- 
warden pipe  was  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  his  carved 


WINTER  225 

snuffbox,  unused  these  many  years.  His  spectacles 
were  in  their  case  on  the  heavy  Bible.  Sam  had 
never  seen  the  Bible  dusty  as  it  was  now.  His 
emotion  was  tinged  with  the  bitter-sweet  of  faded 
memories.  .  .  . 

The  frost  was  still  on  the  ground.  The  sun  was 
pale  in  a  mottled  sky  of  grey,  and  Sam  felt  the  cold 
air  nip  his  ears  as  he  walked  sharply  out  beyond 
the  Toll.  He  was  happy  this  morning;  yesterday 
he  had  said  in  his  heart  he  had  forgotten  what 
happiness  was.  Yesterday  he  would  have  seen 
only  his  own  despair  mirrored  in  the  bare  winter 
countryside;  now  he  saw  its  quiet  loveliness — 
the  greens  of  stained  mossy  trunks,  of  glossy  ivy, 
of  cabbages  standing  bravely  on  the  white  ridges 
across  the  ice-barred  flood  water — the  laced  birch 
twigs  against  the  sky — the  pale  mist  on  the  woods 
— the  hedge,  at  hand,  unheeded  in  its  sober  splen- 
dour of  russet  beech  leaves,  and  haws  in  glinting 
clusters,  and  mossy  stones,  and  dead  grasses,  with 
red  bramble  coils,  and  the  wan  green  stems  of  the 
wild  rose  trailing.  The  furze  bushes  crouching 
on  the  hill  slope  seemed  as  much  alive  as  the  grey 
sheep  there.  On  the  hill  crest  to  the  south  a  row  of 
pines  stood  boldly,/  like  trees  in  a  Japanese  painted 
landscape.  A  hedge  sparrow,  perched  on  a  bush, 
called  "peek-peek,"  and  shuffled  its  wings  rest- 
lessly, and  then,  when  Sam  came  too  near,  it  flitted 
along  the  hedge  before  him.  A  dead  mouse  lay 
at  the  roadside,  its  white  belly  to  the  sky,  and  its 
feet  curled  up  pitifully.  "Poor  little  thing!" 
said  Sam,  and  he  pushed  it  gently  with  his  foot 
among  the  grasses,  safe  out  of  the  way  of  crushing 
wheels. 

The  road  entered  the  fringe  of  the  woods,  and 
then  mounted  by  a  clearing.  A  rabbit  darted 
across  the  way.  Sam  dared  not  fire  here ;  a  keeper's 
cottage  was  at  hand,  and  the  scrape  of  a  spade 


226  LITTLE  HOUSES 

told  of  somebody  at  work.  A  little  stream  gurgled 
beyond  the  hedge,  and  titmice  acrobats  performed 
merrily  in  the  trees.  A  cock  crowed.  A  few  yards 
farther  on  Sam  saw  him  perched  boldly  on  the  gate- 
post. A  pheasant  called  in  the  spruce  plantation 
behind  the  house. 

Sam  walked  rapidly,  making  upwards.  At  the 
crest  he  halted  for  a  moment.  Behind  him  the 
hedgerow  was  all  picked  out  with  pale  vermilion 
points  where  the  haws  caught  the  sun.  Before  him 
was  the  rolling  country  of  the  hills,  mile  after 
mile,  scattered  copses  of  stunted  trees,  stretches 
of  tussocky  grass  and  sedges,  and  narrow  pools, 
the  hedges  crouching  low  beside  the  roads  for  the 
winds  to  leap  them  easily. 

A  black  copse  stood  in  a  fold  in  the  hills,  and 
against  it  was  a  grey  house,  of  stone,  with  ivy  on 
its  walls,  a  trim  lawn  before  it,  and  clipped  box 
hedges.  A  tumbling  brook  rushed  past  its  garden 
foot.  Sam  stopped  to  admire  the  contrast  of  the 
wild  torrent  and  the  air  of  ease,  of  well-being, 
of  wealth  and  order  in  the  great  house,  with  its 
chimneys  reeking  gently,  and  good  food  cooking 
in  its  kitchens  at  this  hour.  A  while  ago  he  would 
have  railed  at  the  Fates  which  had  divided  out  the 
world  with  such  hideous  injustice. 

A  black  moving  dot  on  the  long  winding  lane  in 
front  became  an  old  woman,  bent  under  the  weignt 
of  a  sack  she  was  carrying.  A  sunken  road  crossed 
diagonally,  its  track  marked  by  a  row  of  telephone 
poles  dwindling  over  the  edge  of  the  hills.  Above 
the  hedge  a  tiny  group  of  three  figures  slid  rapidly 
along,  and  grew — three  people  in  a  dogcart,  two 
in  front  and  one  behind,  Sam  noticed;  he  was 
astonished  at  their  speed.  The  old  woman  crossed 
as  they  came  on;  her  head  was  bowed,  and  she 
never  looked  aside  until  the  driver's  shout  startled 
her.  The  wheel  grazed  her  sack,  and  flung  it  to 


WINTER  227 

the  roadside;  the  dogcart  swept  on  rapidly. 
The  groom  at  the  back  laughed.  The  old  woman 
shook  her  fist,  and  swore  horribly.  Then  she  made 
a  sudden  dash  for  the  sack,  and  stuffed  back  into 
it  a  pheasant  and  some  withered  bracken  which  had 
come  out.  She  looked  at  Sam,  her  eyes  sparkling, 
and  then  fell  to  swearing  again.  The  figures  in 
the  dogcart  blended  into  a  black  spot,  gliding  swiftly 
along  the  top  of  the  hedge. 

"Did  you  see  that  now,  the  blackguard?"  said 
the  old  woman  to  Sam,  and  she  paused  to  shake  her 
fist  again. 

Sam  smiled.  He  knew  her  well.  It  was  she 
to  whom  John  Allday  had  sent  a  bottle  of  wine 
last  winter  when  she  was  ill.  Sam  had  assured  him 
she  was  an  old  villain,  and  did  not  deserve  any 
charity.  And  John  had  said,  "Poor  old  soul — • 
how  do  we  know  she  doesn't  deserve  it?  If  she 
was  drowning  we  should  help  her  first — shouldn't 
we? — not  ask  her  if  she  deserved  it."  A  long 
argument  had  followed,  and  John  had  won  Sam  to 
his  opinion,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 

"I'll  set  the  place  afire  this  time — what  I've  seen 
these  days — sure  as  death  I  will,  Mister  Bloom," 
said  the  old  woman  excitedly.  "Haven't  they 
turned  me  away  from  the  back  door  many  a  time 
with  their  Kingsnorton  pride?  And  now  I'll  see 
her  turned  away  from  the  front  door.  And  the 
parson  body — God  forgive  him ! — with  the  sadness 
filling  his  heart  from  this  day,  and  herself  away 
driving  the  roads  and  the  world  with  that  black- 
guard for  ever,  if  he'll  not  run  away  from  her,  as 
he's  done  before  to  many  a  one,  I'll  be  bound." 

Sam  understood.  He  had  recognized  the  woman 
in  the  dogcart — he  knew  her  face,  but  at  first  he 
had  not  been  able  to  recollect  exactly — the  face  was 
muffled,  partly  hidden  by  a  veil  and  the  high  collar 
of  a  fur  coat.  It  was  Barbara  Kingsnorton.  He 


228  LITTLE  HOUSES 

had  not  noticed  her  companion.  The  old  woman 
explained  he  was  the  man  to  whom  she  had  once 
been  engaged — Hurst.  The  old  woman's  rage 
against  him  was  horrible  in  its  expression.  Sam 
was  more  amused  than  interested. 

"It  isn't  my  business,"  he  said. 

"It's  mine  now,  Mister  Bloom!" 

The  old  woman  shouldered  her  sack,  and  stag- 
gered as  she  strove  to  heave  it  into  a  comfortable 
position  on  her  back. 

"Tell  'em  what  the  wheel  knocked  out  of  your 
sack,"  called  Sam  after  her. 

She  made  a  hoarse,  cackling  noise  of  laughter, 
and  went  away,  talking  to  herself  along  the  road. 

"I  must  tell  John,"  Sam  resolved. 

He  had  had  no  sport.  He  had  not  yet  begun 
to  think,  as  he  had  determined;  and  he  had  come 
this  long  way  to  think  things  out.  What  would 
Maggie  say  if  he  returned  with  the  confession  that 
he  hadn't  thought  at  all?  But  there  was  plenty 
of  time.  What  indeed  was  there  to  think  about? 
He  was  happy  now,  enjoying  this  fine  winter  day — 
it  was  not  his  winter,  thank  God;  life  was  beginning 
anew.  He  was  free  to-day;  he  had  been  chained 
to  his  own  misfortunes,  but  he  was  free  at  last. 
Misfortune  was  not  all  his,  as  he  had  thought 
in  the  dark  days,  nor  was  it  found  only  in  his  house 
or  in  other  little  houses.  Happiness  might  be 
thrown  away,  but  it  could  not  be  sold,  or  bought. 
There  was  as  much  room  for  sorrow  in  the  great 
house  as  in  his,  and  more — and  for  happiness — no, 
happiness  was  for  great  hearts,  not  for  nouses.  He 
repeated  it  several  times,  proud  of  the  saying;  he 
would  tell  it  to  Maggie  when  he  returned.  He 
would  have  some  news  to  tell.  How  much  happi- 
ness would  there  be  to-night,  or  to-morrow,  at 
Kingsnortons' ?  He  was  sorry  for  Pettigo,  the 
curate — he  was  a  nice  fellow.  John  Allday  would 


WINTER  229 

be  sorry.  Why  couldn't  a  woman,  or  a  man,  go 
to  the  devil  alone,  without  dragging  others  into  the 
depths?  Why  should  the  innocent  always  suffer 
too?  Surely  there  was  justice  somewhere.  .  .  . 

A  side  lane  dipped  towards  the  valley,  and  a  long 
plantation  covered  the  slope.  Several  pheasants 
were  feeding  in  the  meadow  which  fringed  the 
wood.  Sam  looked  round  quickly.  This  was  his 
chance.  He  could  get  one  home  unobserved  easily 
enough;  he  thought  of  the  bird  in  the  old  woman's 
sack — she  had  half  a  dozen,  perhaps.  At  home 
the  chicken  would  last  to-day  and  to-morrow,  and 
then — pheasant  of  course,  or  kept  hanging  a  bit 
longer,  and  served  with  bread  sauce — they  might 
put  sausages  round  it  and  make  it  go  further.  In 
fancy  already  he  smelled  the  fine  smell  of  the 
cooking. 

One  of  the  pheasants,  a  cock,  was  in  advance 
of  the  others,  feeding  quietly  in  the  open.  There 
were  sheep  in  the  next  meadow.  Sam  hoped  to 
drive  them  gently  towards  the  hedge,  and  creep  up 
behind  them.  The  pheasants  would  take  no  notice 
of  the  sheep's  approach  and  then  it  would  be  a  safe 
shot  from  the  hedge,  twenty  or  twenty-five  yards, 
no  more,  a  sure  kill,  smashing  the  head  and  keeping 
the  body  clean  for  table — then  away  with  the  bird 
before  anyone  might  be  aware  of  what  the  shoot- 
ing was. 

He  entered  the  meadow  by  the  gate,  and  began 
to  cross  very  slowly,  keeping  the  sheep  moving 
before  him  without  their  growing  alarmed.  In  a 
little  while,  however,  he  saw  that  his  eagerness 
was  pushing  him  too  fast;  the  sheep  wandered 
away  restlessly,  afraid  of  being  driven;  two 
pheasants  flew  into  the  wood.  He  lay  down  for 
a  moment  and  then  moved  on  hands  and  knees 
towards  the  hedge.  He  lost  sight  of  the  pheasant 
he  was  stalking.  For  an  instant  he  believed  despair- 


230  LITTLE  HOUSES 

ingly  that  it  had  run  and  then  taken  flight.  Another 
glance  showed  him  the  bird — it  had  moved  further 
out  from  the  wood,  and  was  feeding  quietly,  appar- 
ently undisturbed;  but  it  had  passed  this  meadow, 
and  was  now  an  impossible  shot  from  here.  Sam 
looked  about.  A  hedge  came  down  at  right  angles 
to  this  one,  dividing  the  meadow  from  another. 
He  would  have  to  crawl  through  that,  and  then  the 
pheasant  would  be  his. 

For  safety  he  made  his  way  back  a  little  distance, 
and  then  crawled  rapidly  to  the  other  hedge.  It 
was  a  thorn  hedge,  undipped  and  ragged,  and, 
though  very  bushy  above,  it  had  a  space  here  and 
there  near  the  ground  which  might  be  widened  for 
a  man  to  slip  through,  if  he  forced  down  the  wire 
netting  which  had  been  put  there  for  the  rabbits. 

It  was  harder  than  he  had  expected.  He 
struggled  nearly  through — then  he  reached  back  to 
clutch  the  barrel  of  his  gun. 

His  body  was  torn  with  pain.  A  roaring  rilled 
the  world,  and  black  darkness.  .  .  . 

Presently  he  saw  the  hedge  above  his  head,  and 
the  sky.  He  was  very  weak.  The  thought  of  death 
snatched  at  him  convulsively,  like  a  cold  hand. 
But  he  had  not  the  strength  to  rebel;  he  had  not 
the  strength  to  fight  his  pain;  and  he  knew  surely 
he  would  die.  A  swift  succession  of  images  flashed 
on  his  mind,  clouded,  and  jostling  one  another  in- 
congruously. For  Maggie  he  had  an  agony  of  grief. 
Once  he  recollected  that  he  ought  to  pray,  and  his 
thoughts  began  mechanically  the  first  words  of  the 
Lord's  Prayer;  then  he  stopped — it  was  too  late 
now,  he  realized — he  had  lived  his  life — the  Lord 
knew — He  would  understand.  "God,  I've  tried  I" 
he  called,  striving  with  all  his  feeble  strength  in 
vain  to  sound  with  his  lips  what  his  thoughts  cried 
louder  than  ever  could  have  been  the  spoken  words. 


WINTER  231 

All  his  last  strength  he  put  into  this  silent  call 
that  should  ring  in  Heaven  to  plead  for  him.  Then 
he  lay  inert  a  little  while,  and  Maggie  came  to 
him,  the  children  with  her,  his  own  self  as  a  little 
boy — time  had  no  place  in  his  new  world  of  vision. 
And  then  the  darkness.  .  .  . 

A  bright-eyed  robin  flitted  along  the  hedge,  and 
stopped,  perched  on  a  bramble  spray  to  look  curi- 
ously at  this  new  thing  lying  in  the  fields.  Then 
in  a  moment,  as  the  robin  was  without  fear,  and 
the  day  was  sunny,  and  the  place  here  sheltered 
from  the  wind,  he  sang  a  while,  humble  unfinished 
genius,  throwing  his  notes  carelessly  into  the  air, 
hesitating,  stammering,  and  then,  inspired,  breaking 
into  a  rapid  crowded  little  melody. 


CHAPTER  VII 

NEWS 

AS  the  men  went  into  Binnses  at  six  o'clock 
they  heard  the  news  in  the  time-office: 
the  old  gentleman  was  very  near  the  end. 
The  doctor  had  been  summoned  in  the  early  hours 
of  the  morning,  and  was  coming  again  at  breakfast- 
time.  It  was  the  only  topic  of  conversation. 
Some  of  the  men  had  arrived  with  the  premature 
knowledge  that  the  old  gentleman  had  "passed 
away  very  peaceful"  at  ten  minutes  to  three, 
or  ten  minutes  after  three,  or  at  some  other  exact 
moment — there  was  no  lack  of  circumstantial 
evidence  in  proof;  nor  would  the  revealed  falsity 
of  it  prevent  the  believers  from  accepting  in  future 
similar  evidence  about  any  other  visionary  happen- 
ing. The  old  gentleman  died  again  in  the  town 
during  the  breakfast  interval;  shopkeepers  talked 
of  a  half-holiday,  and  argued  whether  perhaps  it 
would  be  best  left  till  the  day  of  the  funeral.  In 
the  works  there  was  very  little  done.  Every  hour 
the  news  came  authentically  from  the  big  house: 
unconscious,  and  still  the  same. 

The  older  men  recounted  lusty  anecdotes  of 
Gentleman  Binnses'  career,  especially  of  his  gallan- 
tries. He  had  been  a  famous  ladies'  man;  there 
were  none  like  him  now ;  what  had  been  his  courte- 
ous freedom  was  only  cheek  nowadays — the  very 

232 


NEWS  233 

word  for  it  was  vulgar — it  had  lost  its  grand  air, 
somehow.  Indeed,  the  charm  was  very  difficult  to 
define,  and  the  old  men  grew  blunt  and  emphatic 
because  the  young  ones  could  not  be  convinced. 
Great  ladies  of  the  district,  dead,  many  of  them, 
others  with  grandchildren,  were  paraded  in  nar- 
rative like  the  best  cattle  at  a  fair. 

Nobody  had  been  so  opportunely  deaf  as  Old 
Gentleman  Binns.  "It's  convenient  to  be  deaf 
sometimes."  That  was  one  of  his  best  known  witti- 
cisms; and  everybody  knew  at  least  one  story  of 
his  deafness.  There  was  the  tale  of  his  captivating 
young  Mrs.  Stoke,  until  her  husband,  the  rich  iron- 
founder  of  Cadby,  Stoke  &  Co.,  was  as  jealous  as 
a  boy  who  can't  wag  his  ears  when  all  his  friends 
can.  When  her  husband  died,  it  was  Gentleman 
Binns  who  had  persuaded  her  to  give  the  park  to 
the  town.  And  it  was  done  so  easily,  in  the  begin- 
ning, in  his  inimitable  way: 

"Who  is  this  young  lady  next  to  me?  She's 
very  pretty,"  in  his  terrific  whisper  to  a  friend  be- 
side him  at  a  fete.  How  could  any  woman  have 
resisted  that  flattery? 

Each  of  the  old  workmen  had  his  favourite  tale. 

"I  saw  him  one  Saturday  night  knock  a  man  down 
in  the  Market,  flat,  among  a  lot  o'  cabbages  and 
stuff.  It  was  old  Simley — you've  heard  of  old 
Simley.  .  .  .  His  wife  had  fetched  him  out  o'  the 
'George'  and  was  trying  to  get  him  home.  He 
wouldn't  go,  not  he — and  when  he  got  savage  he 
let  out  and  caught  her  on  the  jaw.  Gentleman 
Binns  happened  to  see  it.  Up  he  come  in  a  twink, 
and  down  went  old  Simley  atop  o'  the  cabbages, 
his  legs  flapping  as  if  they  didn't  rightly  belong  to 
him.  That  was  only  the  beginning.  Mr.  Binns 
ordered  him  up,  and  made  him  take  his  wife's  arm, 
and  then  he  stood  and  lectured  him,  told  him  he'd 
married  his  wife  because  he  admired  her,  she  was 


234  LITTLE  HOUSES 

a  fine  woman,  and  he  ought  to  go  down  on  his  knees 
to  her  and  beg  her  pardon,  and  be  proud  he'd  got 
a  wife  like  her.  He  did  let  him  have  it.  Why, 
good  Lord !  in  about  three  minutes  there  was  old 
Simley  off  as  proud  as  he  could  be,  arm  in  arm  with 
his  wife — she  was  very  near  dying  o'  shame,  and 
us  dying  o'  laughing  at  'em.  .  .  ." 

There  was  no  end  to  the  tales  of  Gentleman 
Binns  and  the  good  old  days.  In  anecdote  it  was 
the  old  men's  triumph  this  morning.  The  young 
ones  might  be  sceptical,  but  they  had  to  listen. 

John  Allday  met  Maggie  and  the  children  as  he 
was  going  home  to  dinner.  She  was  radiant  with 
the  good  news  of  Sam's  resolve  to  break  with  the 
union  and  go  back  to  work. 

"That's  right,  Maggie,"  agreed  John — "you 
persuade  him  to  start  for  himself,  at  the  first 
possible  moment.  It's  hard — long  hours,  and  per- 
severance, you  know — but  it's  the  sure  way  to 
progress.  You  see  how  I'm  getting  on.  It's  only 
the  start,  the  capital " 

"Yes.  I've  been  to  see  his  grandfather — I've  just 
come  away.  I  went  to  tell  him  about  Sam — well, 
not  to  tell  him  exactly,  because  Sam  called.  I'm 
glad  I  went.  He  didn't  know — he  was  in  bed  when 
Sam  went.  He  was  delighted — he's  promised  to 
give  Sam  a  start,  if  he  likes — the  bicycle  trade,  we 
thought.  Sam  doesn't  know — I  want  him  to  b'e 
quick  home — to  tell  him " 

"I'm  very  glad,"  said  John.  "You  deserve  it 
Maggie.  I'll  come  up,  and  we'll  have  a  chat  about 
it.  Perhaps  I  can  help " 

"Yes — do — to-morrow — perhaps — we'll  have  a 
bit  of  supper  for  you.  .  .  ." 

It  was  the  first  news  he  told  when  he  got  home. 
His  mother  and  father  were  interested,  but  not  so 
enthusiastic  as  he;  they  were  more  anxious  to 
discuss  the  latest  news  of  Old  Gentleman  Binns. 


NEWS  235 

The  men  went  quietly  into  the  works  at  two 
o'clock.  They  had  scarcely  settled  down  for 
the  afternoon  when  the  news  passed  magically 
through  the  shops:  Old  Gentleman  Binns  was  dead. 
There  was  no  more  work  to-day.  The  heats  were 
left  in  the  fires,  the  bellows  stopped,  and  the  breeze 
ceased  to  glow;  strikers  washed  their  grimy  hands 
in  the  water  troughs,  and  put  on  their  coats.  In 
little  groups  and  in  file  the  men  passed  out,  through 
the  big  gates,  silently,  their  voices  lowered  as  they 
talked.  The  blinds  were  down  in  the  big  house. 
The  men  stood  about,  hesitating  before  going  away, 
talking,  talking,  the  same  things  said  again  and 
again,  each  one  awed  by  the  near  presence  of  death, 
the  all  powerful.  Old  men  wiped  away  their  tears 
with  the  backs  of  their  gnarled  hands,  unashamed. 
They  had  known  the  master  so  long;  they  had 
worked  for  him  when  they  were  young  and  he  was 
the  reckless  dandy  they  had  all  admired;  and  now 
he  was  dead,  and  they  were  old,  like  him ;  it  would 
be  their  turn  soon.  The  place  would  never  be  the 
same  again.  It  was  hard  for  old  men  who  had  been 
used  to  the  place  all  their  lives  to  start  again  in  a 
strange  place — for  it  would  be  a  strange  place,  with 
the  old  gentleman  gone.  The  young  men  already 
talked  of  the  advantages  of  a  strike. 

John's  mother  surprised  him  when  he  entered  the 
house : 

"I  knew  just  after  you'd  gone.  I  thought  you 
would  be  back  sooner  than  this." 

"He  wasn't  dead  when  you  heard,"  said  John. 

They  had  tea  early,  and  John  prepared  to  go  out 
to  Nickling  to  see  Mr.  Pettigo.  A  committee 
meeting  at  the  Social  Club  was  to  be  held  on  the 
morrow,  and  several  important  matters  were  to  be 
discussed;  there  would  now  be  added  the  send- 
ing of  a  wreath  for  Alderman  Binnses'  funeral — 
he  had  been  a  very  generous  patron  of  the  club. 


236  LITTLE  HOUSES 

The  funeral  would  certainly  be  a  public  affair; 
the  shops  would  close  for  several  hours.  The  town 
council,  the  workmen,  the  Social  Club,  all  would 
be  represented. 

"You'll  be  invited,  John,  for  sure,"  said  his 
mother. 

"He's  been  the  greatest  man  the  town  ever  had, 
I  should  say,"  declared  Mr.  Allday.  "He  wasn't 
born  here,  but  he  loved  the  place,  and  he  did  his 
utmost  for  good  all  round.  Look  at  the  Queen's 
Jubilee — he  might  have  been  at  Court,  and  got 
knighted,  perhaps — it's  more  than  likely — and  he 
preferred  to  stay  here  and  help  the  town  where  he 
made  his  money.  You  never  see  that  nowadays. 
Splendid,  I  call  it." 

"They  say  a  woman  did  that — Mrs.  Whatsher- 
name?"  said  Mrs.  Allday. 

"They  say!  Who  are  they?  Everybody  and 
nobody,  mother,"  said  Mr.  Allday  emphatically. 
"As  sure  as  ever  a  man  rises,  and  the  higher  he 
rises,  there's  a  jostling  lot  o'  jealous  gossips,  evil- 
minded  creatures,  try  to  pull  his  character  down, 
because  they  can't  reach  the  real  man  high  above 
them.  Never  listen " 

"I  only  said  as  they  say  that,"  said  Mrs. 
Allday. 

"Exactly!  And  they  only  said — and  there  you 
are.  'I  know  Mrs.  Allday  is  an  honest,  straight- 
forward woman,  and  she  told  me,  so  it's  bound  to 
be  true.'  How  do  you  like  that?" 

Mrs.  Allday  protested,  and  her  husband  laughed 
at  her. 

John  left  the  house,  and  walked  out  rapidly 
to  Nickling.  There  he  was  disappointed:  Mr. 
Pettigo  was  out.  His  landlady  did  not  know  when 
he  might  return;  perhaps  it  would  be  very  late — 
she  didn't  know. 

John  moved  slowly  away,  annoyed  that  he  had 


NEWS  237 

come  so  far  for  nothing.  He  recollected  that  he 
had  seen  a  light  in  the  window  upstairs  as  he 
approached  the  house;  that  could  not  be  Mr. 
Pettigo's  room,  of  course,  though  he  had  fancied 
so,  at  first.  He  turned.  The  light  was  gone. 
Suddenly  the  gas  was  lit  in  the  front  room  below — 
Mr.  Pettigo's  room.  A  shadow  was  thrown  sharply 
on  the  blind,  a  face  in  profile.  John  was  startled, 
for  he  was  sure  it  was  the  curate's  shadow.  It  was 
gone  in  an  instant,  and  he  strove  to  believe  that  he 
had  been  mistaken — in  vain;  it  was  the  curate's 
shadow;  he  could  not  leave  it  at  home  when  he 
went  out.  John  started  impulsively  towards  the 
house,  but  after  a  few  steps  he  hesitated.  The 
landlady  had  said  emphatically  that  Mr.  Pettigo 
was  out;  she  would  not  have  lied  without  orders, 
and  so  she  would  lie  again ;  he  could  not  force  him- 
self past  her.  He  was  acutely  perturbed,  and 
annoyed.  He  had  not  believed  the  curate  capable 
of  a  lie  of  that  sort;  it  was  often  done,  he  knew, 
but  not  by  Pettigo.  What  was  the  reason?  It 
must  be  a  grave  one.  .  .  . 

The  lights  of  Selbridge  threw  a  lurid  glow  on 
the  low  clouds.  A  storm  was  rising,  moaning  and 
crying  in  the  bare  trees.  John  was  uneasy  and 
depressed. 

His  mother  and  father  had  greater  news  than 
his: 

"Have  you  heard — Sam  Bloom  has  shot 
himself?" 

John  was  aghast. 

"Mr.  Hastilow  heard  it  at  the  Toll,  so  Mrs. 
Hastilow  has  been  in  to  tell  us,"  said  his  mother. 
"It  was  over  at  Wren  fold.  I  forget  the  name  she 
said — a  farmer  there,  he  was  the  first  to  bring  the 
news." 

"It  isn't  true!"  said  John.  "It's  impossible! 
Didn't  I  tell  you  I  saw  Maggie  this  morning,  as 


238  LITTLE  HOUSES 

happy  as  could  be  because  Sam  was  going  to  make 
a  fresh  start?" 

"But  you  said  she  told  you  he  was  out  with  his 
gun,"  said  Mr.  Allday.  "Perhaps  he's  had  an 
accident — you  never  know." 

The  image  in  his  thoughts,  of  Maggie,  radiant 
with  her  happy  news,  as  he  had  seen  her  this  morn- 
ing, brought  John  near  to  sudden  tears. 

"I'll  go  and  find  out,"  he  said  impulsively. 

"Everybody's  talking  about  it.  I  should  like  to 
know  it  isn't  true,"  said  his  mother. 

John  put  on  his  hat  and  coat  again.  Swiftly 
he  recollected  how  Maggie  had  consoled  him  when 
he  had  been  sick  at  heart.  If  this  horrible  thing 
were  true,  then  it  would  be  his  duty  to  go  to  her. 
She  had  not  many  friends;  now  was  the  time  for 
the  true  ones  to  show  their  worth.  At  least  it 
should  never  be  said  of  him,  as  of  so  many  he  knew, 
that  he  had  more  sympathy  in  words  than  in 
actions. 

He  met  two  of  Binnses'  men  in  the  High  Street, 
and  stayed  a  moment  to  glean  the  news. 

"They  said  as  he's  done  it.  I  don't  know  for 
certain.  I  dare  say  it's  right  enough.  He  was  an 
erratic,  impulsive  sort  o'  fellow,  wasn't  He?" 

In  the  Bullen,  John  came  upon  a  little  group  of 
the  Social  Club  members. 

"Hallo,  John !  Have  you  heard  the  latest  ?"  they 
greeted  him. 

"About  Sam  Bloom  ?  Yes,"  said  John.  "I  want 
to  know  the  truth.  I  don't  believe  he's  shot  him- 
self. I  tell  you,  I  know  for  a  fact " 

"Oh — that!     No — it  was  an  accident,  I  believe." 

"But  that  isn't  it.  Haven't  you  heard  about 
curate  Pettigo?" 

"What?" 

John   felt  his  body  shrink. 

"His  ladylove's  bolted  with  another  man — that 


NEWS  239 

man  Hurst  she  was  engaged  to  before,  you  re- 
member  " 

"Poor  old  Pettigo!     He'll  feel  it " 

"She  wasn't  good  enough  for  him,  anywhere 
near " 

"That's  a  fact!  A  proud,  flighty  piece  o' 
goods " 

They  noticed  neither  John's  silence  nor  his 
suffering. 

"How  do  you  know  it?"  he  demanded,  startling 
them  with  his  emphasis. 

They  laughed. 

"There  isn't  any  'how'  about  it.  Why,  there's 
fifty  tales  already  to  choose  from,  all  different. 
Heaven  only  knows  which  one's  true.  But  it's 
right  this  far — she's  done  a  bunk,  skedaddled.  .  .  ." 

They  were  capping  one  another's  jokes  when 
John  left  them.  He  couldn't  stay  and  listen,  and  he 
couldn't  trust  himself  to  talk.  His  legs  were  weak, 
as  though  he  had  walked  to  exhaustion;  his  grief 
was  like  a  sickness,  filling  his  whole  being.  He 
did  not  notice  that  he  had  crossed  the  Bullen  until 
he  saw  the  slope  of  Castle  Street  rising  above  him. 
Then  he  recollected  Maggie.  He  was  going  to  her ; 
he  had  said  it  was  his  duty  to  offer  her  his  sympathy 
and  his  help.  Now  as  he  mounted  the  hill  he  knew 
that  it  was  her  sympathy  he  would  need.  There 
would  be  none  other  offered  him,  none  he  could 
ask ;  nobody  would  know  his  suffering,  and  he  could 
not  tell.  These  members  of  the  Social  Club — 
what  would  they  say  if  he  told  them  how  he  had 
worshipped  Barbara  Kingsnorton — his  goddess, 
"a  flighty  piece  of  goods!"  Bitterly  he  under- 
stood the  unreality  of  the  glorious  vision  he  had 
loved  secretly  without  hope.  The  goddess  had 
been  in  his  own  heart — he  understood  now — it  was 
the  reality  which  was  the  image.  What  vulgar 
innuendo  would  be  heard  if  he  let  gossip  know! 


240  LITTLE  HOUSES 

None  would  understand — perhaps  one  here  and 
there,  but  who  ?  Maggie  would  divine  his  need  for 
sympathy;  she  seemed  to  enter  his  inner  self,  to 
know  him  as  even  he  did  not  know.  He  must  go 
to  her,  for  she  was  in  need  also.  .  .  . 

He  paused  by  the  lamp  before  he  should  pass 
round  to  the  back  of  the  last  block  of  houses.  What 
would  he  say?  Had  they  brought  Sam  home?  The 
horror  which  had  been  only  in  his  thoughts  seemed 
to  fill  his  body. 

A  voice  roused  him: 

"Here's  Mr.  Allday." 

He  recognized  Mrs.  Onions  standing  with 
a  neighbour. 

"I  was  saying  only  five  minutes  ago  as  you'd  be 
up,"  she  called  out.  "I've  said  it  many  a  time,  I 
have;  it  isn't  till  there's  trouble  in  the  house  you 
know  who  your  real  friends  are.  What  a  terrible 
day,  Mr.  Allday,  to  be  sure!  It  never  rains  but 
there's  a  downpour.  Sure,  who'd  have  thought  this 
affliction  was  hanging  right  over,  so  sudden?  And 
whose  turn  it  is  next,  it  makes  a  body  go  all  of  a 
dither.  .  .  .  She's  gone — they  fetched  her  this 
afternoon  to  see  him — quite  dead,  I  believe.  Poor 
soul!  I  was  down  the  town,  else  I'd  ha'  gone 
with  her — she  ought  to  ha'  had  somebody  with  'er. 
The  children  are  with  Mrs.  Walker  here — they 
don't  know,  poor  little  mites!  It's  ard,  isn't  it,  for 
'em.  .  .  ." 

After  a  short  while  John  walked  slowly  down  the 
hill.  In  suffering  he  saw  Maggie  setting  out  alone, 
with  none  to  comfort  her,  to  find  Sam — in  a  shed, 
or  the  club-room  of  some  public-house,  perhaps. 
Suddenly  he  remembered  Sam's  grandfather,  and 
he  turned  back. 

"Mrs.  Onions,  do  you  know  if  anybody  has  told 
his  grandfather,  old  Mr.  Peacock?"  he  asked. 

"Not   as   I   know   of,   Mr.   Allday.      I   thought 


NEWS  241 

as  somebody  ought  to  go — it'll  about  kill  the  old 
man." 

"I'll  go,"  said  John. 

He  found  relief  in  action.  The  swift  movement 
and  the  thought  of  his  mission  drove  his  own  grief 
from  the  possession  of  his  mind. 

To  his  surprise  he  found  the  house  in  darkness. 
The  blinds  were  down,  and  no  one  came  in  answer 
to  his  knocking.  His  knuckles  seemed  to  make  only 
a  feeble  sound  on  the  door  panels.  He  took  out 
his  penknife  and  tapped  sharply  with  the  handle. 
Old  Mr.  Peacock  might  be  in  bed,  but  Mrs. 
Crooks,  his  housekeeper,  would  hear  that,  if  she 
were  in. 

He  was  about  to  go  away,  disappointed,  when 
the  door  opened  of  the  house  next  door,  and  a  yel- 
low shaft  of  light  shot  across  the  street. 

"Who  is  it?  Do  you  want  something?  Mrs. 
Crooks  isn't  in." 

John  stepped  forward  into  the  light. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Mr.  Allday!"  exclaimed  the 
woman  who  had  spoken.  Then  she  lowered  her 
voice  almost  to  a  whisper:  "The  old  man's  gone 
— died  in  his  sleep  this  afternoon.  We'd  just  heard 
in  the  street  'ere  about  his  grandson,  and  Mrs. 
Crooks  was  going  in  to  tell  'im.  She  came  running 
back — we'd  been  'aving  a  cup  o'  tea  early.  I 
could  see  as  something  had  'appened.  'He  was 
there  in  his  chair,'  she  says,  'just  as  you've  seen 
him  many  a  time,  dozing/  she  says,  'and  I  went  up 
to  wake  him — and  when  I  touched  him/  she  says, 
'I  only  just  touched  'im,  an'  'e  went  flop,  all  of  a 
lump.'  She  was  that  frightened  she  daresent  go 
back  without  me,  an'  then  she  wouldn't  touch  him 
— we  had  to  go " 

"Where  is  she  now?"  said  John. 

"She'll  be  in  one  of  the  neighbours',  perhaps. 
She  was  here.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Mr.  Allday, 


242  LITTLE  HOUSES 

she's  been  drinking  'eavy.  She  ain't  been  like  Mrs. 
Thomas  for  looking  after  him." 

"I'll  come  back  to-morrow,"  said  John  sharply. 
"I  can  see  there's  nothing  to  be  done  to-night;  but 
somebody  will  have  to  look  after  things." 

"I'm  sure  I'll  do  anything  I  can,  Mr.  Allday." 

John  thanked  her,  and  said  "good  night."  Then 
he  walked  swiftly  back  to  the  High  Street  and  across 
the  river. 

"Poor  Maggie!"  said  his  mother,  when  he  told 
the  news.  "She'll  need  all  her  friends." 

"How  many's  all?"  said  Mr.  Allday. 

John  said  nothing  of  what  he  had  heard  of 
Barbara  Kingsnorton.  When  presently  his  father 
told  him  a  neighbour  had  been  in  with  the  news, 
and  asked  if  he  had  heard,-  he  had  to  force  his  voice 
to  hide  the  distress  he  dared  not  explain. 

"I  suppose  it's  right.     I  heard  it  in  the  town." 

"Everything's  happened  all  together  to-day,"  said 
his  mother. 

"Everything?"  said  Mr.  Allday.  "That's  a 
lot,  mother.  Old  Gentleman  Binns  is  dead;  and 
another  old  man,  poor  old  Mr.  Peacock,  a  nobody, 
except  to  a  few  who  knew  him,  he's  dead  on  the 
same  day — and  Sam  Bloom's  died,  very  sudden.  It 
isn't  everything.  The  world  will  go  on,  mother,  just 
the  same.  When  a  great  man's  dead,  he  isn't  a 
great  man — he  was." 

"Well,  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"Yes,  I  know.  It's  Sam's  death  we  feel  the 
most.  A  young  man,  just  going  to  make  a  real 
start,  it's  hard,  mother.  That's  what  makes  you 
feel  what  we  all  feel.  Poor  Sam !  He  might  have 
made  such  a  fine  man.  But  it's  Life — it's  always 
the  same.  What's  it  say  in  the  Bible?  'There 
shall  be  two — something — one  shall  be  taken,  and 
the  other  left.'  Sam's  been  taken,  before  he  had 
his  proper  chance,  while  there's  other  men  get  a 


NEWS  243 

hundred  chances.  But,  mark  you,  I  believe  as  Sam 
will  be  judged  by  what  he  would  have  been — 
at  least,  by  what  he  tried  to  be.  You  won't 
perhaps  hear  your  vicar  tell  you  that — I  don't  care, 
all  the  same — it's  justice.  We  don't  know  enough 
in  this  world  to  be  just,  perhaps.  I  know  a  man's 
condemned  many  a  time,  when  he  hasn't  had 
enough  chance.  The  old  way  of  things  is  gone, 
with  Old  Gentleman  Binns.  Sam  might  ha'  made 
one  o'  the  new  men — it's  men  like  him  are  going 
to  count " 

Mrs.  Allday  had  lost  understanding,  so  she 
interrupted : 

"Poor  Maggie — with  the  children  so  young!" 

"There's  a  lot  o'  trouble  in  the  world,  sure 
enough,"  said  Mr.  Allday.  "Everybody's  turn 
comes,  sooner  or  later.  You  don't  understand  life 
without  it.  Where  do  you  turn  to  for  sympathy? 
Why,  to  them  who  have  known  what  trouble  is 
— they're  more  human,  somehow.  Pettigo  won't 
sleep  much  to-night,  I'll  be  bound,  if  it's  true.  He 
must  have  been  worried,  some  time — he  must  have 
felt  something  o'  the  sort  coming.  A  fine  open 
fellow !  There  won't  be  much  pity  for  him,  though. 
Folks  will  laugh — they  always  do  at  that  sort  of 
thing — they  can't  help  it.  Look  at  it  one  way,  it's 
comic " 

"I  don't  think  so.  It's  horrible!"  exclaimed 
John. 

His  father  was  surprised  at  his  vehemence. 

"It  depends.  He's  safe  enough  to  get  over  it, 
if  he  can  keep  from  brooding.  It  isn't  the  weight 
of  sorrow  that  breaks  a  man — it's  the  loneliness. 
You've  read  about  men  suffering,  and  women,  in 
olden  times,  terrible  sufferings;  yet  they  bore  them 
— bore  them  cheerfully  sometimes,  because  they 
were  all  together,  comrades,  all  suffering  alike. 
It  makes  all  the  difference.  The  worst  suffering 


244  LITTLE  HOUSES 

is  what  you  can't  tell  anybody — what  you  daren't 
tell  anybody.  It  gnaws  away  inside  you  like  a 
cancer.  There's  death  in  that." 

"You  aren't  half  going  it  to-night.  You'll  have 
your  throat  bad,"  said  Mrs.  Allday. 

He  smiled. 

In  a  few  moments  the  call  of  a  newsboy  sounded 
from  the  street. 

"That'll  be  a  special,  with  the  old  gentleman's 
death  in,"  said  Mr.  Allday.  "Run  out  and  get  one, 
John." 

GENTLEMAN  BINNS 
DEATH  OF  A1  GRAND  OLD  MAN 

The  headlines  were  in  heavy  type,  and  the  sheet 
was  rilled  with  the  story  of  his  illness,  with  a  long 
history  of  his  life,  of  the  works,  and  of  his  influence 
in  the  district,  with  many  anecdotes.  John  had  to 
read  them  all  aloud. 

"There's  nothing  else  in,  important,  is  there?" 
said  Mrs.  Allday  at  last. 

John  turned  over  the  paper,  and  searched  the 
columns. 

"What's  this?"  he  exclaimed  suddenly.  "Wait 
a  minute !  Here's  Sam's  death — there's  a  paragraph 
in." 

He  read  it  out: 

POACHER'S  DEATH 

Two  labourers  at  Wrenfold  discovered  a  man  lying  shot 
in  a  ditch  at  midday  to-day.  They  carried  him  to  the 
nearest  cottage,  where  he  expired  before  medical  assistance 
could  be  summoned.  Death  is  supposed  to  have  been  caused 
by  the  accidental  discharge  of  his  gun  while  deceased  was 
trespassing  in  pursuit  of  game.  The  body  has  been  identified 
as  that  of  Samuel  Bloom,  a  workman,  residing  in  Pedley 
Hill. 


NEWS  245 

"It's  wonderful  how  quick  they  get  the  news," 
said  Mrs.  Allday. 

"Poor  Sam!"  said  Mr.  Allday,  after  a  moment's 
silence.  "We  know  what  a  fine  young  fellow  he 
was;  and  here  it  is:  a  workman,  a  poacher — that's 
all!  There's  a  lesson  for  you — what  a  man  lives 
for,  if  he  doesn't  climb  like  Alderman  Binns — dead 
and  buried,  and  forgotten,  and  not  even  understood 
at  all.  Poor  Sam!" 

"It's  Maggie  I'm  thinking  of,"  said  Mrs.  Allday. 

John  was  silent.  His  thoughts  were  for  Barbara 
Kingsnorton,  for  the  vision  he  had  worshipped, 
more  real  than  her  own  self,  and  now  lost  utterly. 

His  father's  voice  roused  him: 

"Old  Mr.  Peacock's  death  isn't  in,  is  it,  John?" 

He  searched  the  columns  again. 

"It  won't  be,"  said  his  father.  "It  wouldn't  be 
in  time.  I  don't  suppose  it  would  have  been  in, 
even  if  it  had  been  earlier — not  more  than  a  word 
or  two,  at  the  most.  You  have  to  pay  to  tell 
people  you're  dead — common  folks.  We're  all 
nobodies,  mother,  very  near  all  of  us — nobodies, 
in  little  houses — except  in  our  own  eyes,  and  in  the 
Lord's." 

They  were  silent  a  long  while. 

John  was  glad  to  go  upstairs  to  bed.  There  was 
companionship  for  him  in  the  darkness  and  the 
silence. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   HILL 

THE  corncrake  called  in  every  meadow,  a 
voice  here  at  hand,  then  there  among  the 
grass,  a  ventriloquist's  voice.  None  had 
seen  the  bird  come;  none  would  see  him  go;  he 
might  have  been  a  voice  only,  not  a  bird  skulking 
invisible  to  common  eyes.  Those  who  had  never 
seen  him,  however,  followed  the  example  of  the 
king's  subjects  in  the  fairy  tale,  who  couldn't  see 
the  invisible  cloak.  There  was  a  stuffed  corncrake 
in  a  glass  case  in  the  bar  at  the  "Bull";  it  was  a 
poor  amateur  naturalist  indeed  who  could  not  put 
life  into  a  description  of  that. 

It  was  Friday.  John  Allday  had  had  a  quiet 
morning  at  the  yard.  In  the  afternoon  he  went 
into  Selbridge.  As  soon  as  his  business  there  was 
completed,  he  went  to  the  Royal  Emporium,  and 
made  his  way  to  the  toy  department.  He  thought 
of  Maggie  as  he  went;  she  had  been  Maggie 
Wheatley  then,  at  the  tobacco  and  fancy  goods 
counter — how  many  years  ago? 

"I  want  a  doll,  please,  only  a  little  one,  but  a 
nice  one." 

He  didn't  blush  as  he  would  have  done  years 
ago.  He  had  more  assurance  now,  come  with  his 
steadily  growing  prosperity.  He  made  jokes  with 
the  girl  who  served. 

The  doll  was  all  he  wanted.  He  would  go  back 
246 


THE  HILL  247 

to  Pedley  Hill  by  train.  He  was  going  to  tea  with 
Maggie;  it  was  baby's  birthday — she  was  two 
years  old  to-day.  The  doll  was  tied  in  its  cardboard 
box,  and  paid  for,  when  he  recollected  the  baby's 
brother,  his  godson,  John.  It  would  not  do  to  take 
nothing  for  him — he  was  such  a  fine  little  man. 
So  John  turned  back  to  the  counter  and  bought 
a  whip  with  a  whistle  at  the  end  of  the  handle. 
Then  he  was  ready. 

"I  look  quite  a  family  man,"  he  told  himself 
merrily.  Many  a  time  he  had  seen  men  carrying 
toys,  especially  on  Saturdays — fathers  going  home 
— and  he  had  never  realized  how  happy  they  must 
have  been.  To  him  they  had  seemed  rather  absurd. 
He  was  beginning  to  understand  now.  In  the  days 
of  grief,  and  again  when  time  was  healing  him, 
and  he  had  posed,  theatrically  before  his  own  self, 
and  had  called  life  a  mockery,  and  romance  an  illu- 
sion, when  he  had  had  to  call  on  reiteration  to  help 
him  to  the  despair  which  had  grown  precious,  he 
had  found  a  new  growth  springing  within  him,  a 
sympathy  and  a  comprehension  for  tiny  things 
which  he  had  often  seen  but  had  never  understood. 

The  children  were  eagerly  awaiting  him. 

"I've  had  the  greatest  work  with  'em,"  said 
Maggie.  "It's  been  'Uncle  John!  Uncle  John!' 
all  afternoon.  As  for  getting  them  to  sleep  for 
their  usual  nap — not  a  bit  of  it.  'Uncle  John's 
coming!' ' 

"Of  course !"  said  John  happily. 

He  had  to  show  the  boy  how  to  blow  the  whistle, 
and  had  to  crack  the  whip  for  him;  then  he  had 
to  hold  the  doll  and  talk  to  it.  Maggie  sat  and 
laughed  at  them,  until  she  was  forced  to  play. 
Dolly's  mother  wouldn't  have  her  tea  without  her. 

"You  are  having  a  birthday — isn't  she,  Uncle 
John?"  said  Maggie. 

After    tea    they    went    into    the    garden.      The 


248  LITTLE  HOUSES 

children  played,  and  Maggie  and  John  walked  to 
and  fro  and  talked.  It  had  been  a  day  of  sun 
and  showers,  and  a  cool,  rich  smell  was  rising  from 
the  earth,  from  the  new  foliage  of  the  hedge,  and 
from  the  grass  beyond.  Mrs.  Onions  appeared  at 
the  back  door,  and  came  along,  announcing  her 
intention  to  do  a  bit  o'  weeding. 

"It's  only  a  bit  of  green,  but  it's  nice,"  said 
Maggie. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  John  agreed.  "You  know,  it  isn't 
out  of  the  quantity  of  good  things  that  happi- 
ness comes — it's  out  of  our  own  appreciation  of 
them." 

"That's  right,  Mr.  Allday,"  said  Mrs.  Onions. 
"It's  what  I've  said  many  a  time.  You're  the  one 
to  put  things  sensible." 

John  whispered  to  Maggie:  "It  isn't  mine — ifs 
one  of  father's  sayings." 

"Some  folks  don't  know  they're  born,"  said  Mrs. 
Onions,  and  she  proceeded  to  anecdote  without 
delay. 

Maggie  was  happy  now — she  did  not  need  to 
talk.  She  wanted  to  keep  John  a  while  longer — 
the  time  had  gone  so  quickly;  so  to  prolong  her 
pleasure  she  invited  Mrs.  Onions  to  come  indoors 
and  see  the  children  bathed  and  put  to  bed. 

John  sat  and  smoked  his  pipe.  This  was  a  time 
he  enjoyed;  he  did  not  know  why;  he  had  never 
paused  to  ask  himself  the  cause  of  his  keen  pleasure. 
Both  children  liked  to  escape  from  their  mother, 
if  they  could,  while  they  were  being  undressed,  and 
then  they  would  run  to  him,  laughing  noisily  and 
feigning  fear.  Maggie  had  to  chase  them  all  about 
the  room.  It  was  grand  fun — for  the  children. 
And  they  always  splashed  too  much  in  the  zinc 
bath,  and  threw  their  toys  out — the  ball,  and  the 
floating  swan,  and  the  tiny  rowing  boat  Uncle  John 
had  brought  from  Blackpool. 


THE  HILL  249 

"You're  a  spoilt  little  girlie — and  it's  all  your 
Uncle  John!"  said  Mrs.  Onions,  in  glee. 

When  they  had  said  their  prayers,  and  he  had 
kissed  them  "good  night,"  he  stayed  to  chat  with 
Mrs.  Onions  while  Maggie  put  them  to  bed.  He 
had  enjoyed  himself;  he  didn't  want  to  go  yet 

"I  shall  have  to  be  giving  a  look  round  at  home," 
said  Mrs.  Onions.  "My  old  man's  working  over, 
and  I've  got  a  bit  o'  supper  special  for  him.  I 
shall  be  back  in  a  minute  or  two,  perhaps." 

John  sat  in  the  arm-chair,  and  looked  round  the 
quiet  sitting-room.  It  was  a  comfortable  little 
room,  he  thought.  He  had  always  felt  contented 
here.  Maggie  kept  it  very  neat;  it  was  splendid, 
the  way  she  kept  the  place.  A  nosegay  of  lady- 
smocks  stood  in  a  slender  glass  vase  in  the  centre 
of  the  table.  They  were  only  wild  flowers — Maggie 
could  not  afford  the  rich  blooms  that  filled  ttte 
florists'  shops — but  how  pretty  they  were,  how 
delicate  in  hue !  Wild  flowers  for  baby's  birthday, 
and  because  Uncle  John  was  coming!  It  was  very 
nice  of  Maggie — such  a  little  thing,  but  of  those 
little  things  which  are  so  much.  Maggie  was  al- 
ways like  that. 

Presently  she  came  downstairs,  and  shut  the  door 
quietly. 

"They're  crying  a  bit,"  said  she.  "They  didn't 
want  to  go — you  being  here — but  they'll  drop  off 
soon.  They're  tired  out.  Has  Mrs.  Onions 
gone  ?" 

"Yes.  She  said  she  would  be  back  in  a  minute 
or  two." 

"Oh — her  minutes!" 

Maggie  smiled,  and  John  smiled  too.  He  did  not 
want  Mrs.  Onions  to  come  back. 

Gradually  their  talk  became  serious.  Maggie 
spoke  of  her  future  plans: 

"The  grandfather's  money  was  a  godsend.     I 


250  LITTLE  HOUSES 

don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  without  it. 
But  it  isn't  much,  and  I  don't  want  to  spend  it 
all,  and  then  be  left.  I  can  afford  to  wait  till  the 
children  grow  up  a  bit  more — John's  three  now — 
they  won't  be  so  much  trouble  then,  and  I  can  use 
the  money  to  start  properly  in  business.  I'm  sure 
I  can  make  it  pay.  It's  the  best  investment  I 
could  have;  don't  you  think  so?  It  will  keep  me 
occupied,  as  well.  I  do  some  sewing  now — not 
much,  but  it  dresses  the  children.  I'm  getting  ever 
so  quick,  and  I  could  make  much  more  profit  selling 
in  my  own  shop — ever  so  much  more.  It's  your 
advice,  really." 

"It's  the  best  way,  Maggie,"  said  John.  "If 
anybody  had  told  me  twelve  months  ago  I  should 
be  doing  so  well  now,  I  should  have  treated  it  as 
a  joke.  .  .  ." 

The  shadows  came  out  of  the  corners  of  the  room. 

"How  quickly  the  time  has  gone!" 

They  were  surprised.  It  had  seemed  such  a  little 
while.  John  rose  to  go,  and  Maggie  took  him  to 
the  front  door. 

"Good-night,  Maggie.  It  has  been  a  happy  birth- 
day, hasn't  it,  for  her!" 

"Yes — thanks  to  you." 

"Not  to  me." 

"Yes,  yes!" 

"Well — not  entirely.  I  like  to  see  the  children 
enjoy  themselves." 

"You  spoil  them,  you  know.  I  shall  have  ever 
such  a  game  with  'em  to-morrow.  They  are  good, 
really,  I  know.  You  can't  expect " 

"Of  course  not!    Good  night!" 

"Goodnight,  John!" 

He  held  her  hand  in  his  the  whole  time.  After 
he  had  gone  he  still  felt  the  warm  pressure  of  it. 

He  hesitated  for  an  instant  on  the  pavement. 
Then  he  mounted  slowly  towards  the  crest  of  the 


THE  HILL  251 

hill,  and  stood  a  while  on  the  railway  bridge.  He 
did  not  want  to  go  home  yet,  he  told  himself.  It 
was  not  late,  and  it  was  a  lovely  evening.  He 
wanted  to  enjoy  the  last  hours  again  in  recollection, 
and  he  must  be  alone  for  that;  it  was  no  pleasure 
to  be  shared;  its  joys  were  too  delicate  to  bear 
narration  to  another.  He  did  not  know  that 
Maggie  had  stood  in  reverie  after  the  front  door 
was  shut,  and  saw  him  pass  the  window.  She  had 
gone  outside,  by  the  back  door,  and  stood  now  in 
the  shadows,  watching  his  dim  figure  above  the 
parapet  of  the  bridge.  He  did  not  know  how  she 
watched  him  go,  and  how  she  went  quietly  indoors 
again,  with  an  emptiness  in  her  inner  self  as  though 
he  had  taken  with  him  all  that  had  lain  there. 

Lovers  were  in  the  lanes,  here  and  there,  in  the 
scented  dusk,  seated  close  together  on  the  grassy 
hedgebanks,  heedless  of  the  damp,  blotted  against 
walls  in  shadow,  by  gates,  everywhere.  John 
smiled.  Why  shouldn't  they  be  happy?  he  said, 
and  his  thoughts  went  back  to  Maggie,  recollecting 
her  "good  night,"  and  the  pressure  of  her  hand 
in  his.  She  was  fond  of  him,  he  knew — and  of 
late  he  had  gone  to  her  for  sympathy,  many  days, 
when  he  had  been  sick  at  heart  and  lonely,  just  as 
he  had  gone  to  his  mother,  years  ago,  to  shelter 
from  nameless  fears.  She  never  refused.  Into 
his  thoughts  came  her  image,  as  she  had  stood  at 
the  door,  wishing  him  "good  night,"  very  plain  in 
her  black  dress,  her  face  pale  against  the  shadows 
of  the  room,  but  with  a  happy  light  shining  in  her 
eyes.  Sorrow  had  made  her  quieter,  more  thought- 
ful; it  had  taken  the  quick,  mischievous  smile  and 
the  laughter,  but  it  had  given  her  a  new  loveliness. 
Indeed,  many  a  man  would  be  proud  of  her. 
John  was  startled  by  the  thought.  She  was  young 
— younger  than  he.  Many  a  man — there  was  the 
thought  again,  struggling  against  his  efforts  fo 


252  LITTLE  HOUSES 

banish  it.  He  had  been  tormented  thus  before — 
it  was  an  old  enemy.  Was  it  an  enemy?  It  had 
been — but  was  it  now?  He  was  filled  with  vague 
disquietude.  Once  the  sound  of  a  kiss,  and  then 
soft  laughter  and  whispering,  caught  him  unawares, 
and  left  him  troubled  by  its  recollection:  he  had 
been  walking  quietly  on  the  grass  beside  the  road, 
and  had  come  on  a  pair  of  lovers  unobserved.  And 
the  incident  sent  his  memory  back  into  the  past, 
to  when  he  had  been  a  boy  at  school,  and  Maggie 
had  kissed  him,  taking  him  by  surprise.  For  an 
instant  the  vision  was  exceedingly  vivid,  and  then, 
when  it  faded,  he  called  it  back  again.  Maggie  came 
to  him  in  a  new  image,  passionately  alive,  inflaming 
him.  He  thought  again  of  the  days  when  he  had 
said  all  his  happiness  was  broken.  She  had  never 
turned  him  away.  In  the  midst  of  her  grief  she 
had  always  found  some  happiness  for  him.  Then 
came  the  vision  of  Barbara  Kingsnorton.  She 
had  never  lived — this  Barbara  of  his.  The  real 
Barbara  was  an  unhappy  woman,  living  in  London 
now,  married  to  a  man  who  neglected  her  already, 
so  John  had  learnt.  He  understood  in  some 
measure  what  her  suffering  must  be,  how  her  idols 
had  fallen  broken  in  the  dust,  and  he  was  sorry 
for  her,  for  the  Barbara  who  had  never  really 
lived.  But  Maggie  had  been  no  vision.  The  real 
Maggie  he  knew,  boundless  in  sympathy,  for  him, 
at  least,  devoted  in  friendship,  perfect  in  mother- 
hood. 

He  stopped  at  a  turning.  Why  should  he  go  on 
further?  Why  had  he  come  out  here,  walking 
alone  ?  He  might  have  stayed  with  Maggie  longer ; 
there  was  no  need  to  have  come  away  so  early. 
And  with  that  thought  he  turned  to  go  back,  then 
hesitated  a  while.  What  would  Maggie  say  if  he 
returned  to  her?  What  would  she  think?  What 
would  he  say  in  explanation? 


THE  HILL:  253 

Slowly  at  first  he  began  to  walk  towards  the  hill, 
which  rose  in  silhouette  against  the  last  wan  light 
of  day,  lingering  star-bejewelled  in  the  west. 

He  had  no  clear  thoughts  now;  they  were  all 
in  a  medley,  out  of  focus,  while  an  unquiet  yearning 
drove  him  to  greater  speed.  The  air  in  the  lanes 
was  warm  still,  here  and  there;  the  earth  seemed 
to  have  held  the  day's  heat,  and  now  was  letting 
it  rise  among  the  shadows,  clinging  and  odorous, 
troubling  his  senses  as  he  inhaled  it  in  deep  breaths, 
intoxicating  him,  filling  him  with  desire. 

His  hesitation  had  gone  when  he  arrived,  and  he 
knocked  at  the  front  door.  He  had  been  hurrying, 
and  his  heart  thumped  loudly  as  he  listened  for 
Maggie's  footsteps  to  cross  the  room. 

"John!"  she  exclaimed,  astonished,  when  she 
opened  the  door.  "I  couldn't  think  who  it  was." 

She  paused,  and  what  seemed  to  him  a  long 
silence  followed.  He  could  not  speak. 

"Come  in,"  she  said. 

He  stepped  inside.  The  front  room  was  in  dark- 
ness. A  yellow  patch  of  light  from  the  sitting- 
room  covered  the  wall  in  the  passage,  and  broke 
the  shadows  with  its  soft  reflections.  Maggie  shut 
the  door,  and  then  turned,  and  they  stood  face  to 
face. 

"I've  come  back,  you  see,"  said  John,  trembling 
and  distraught.  "I  always  come  back." 

He  tried  to  smile,  to  fight  down  the  agitation 
which  pained  him.  Maggie  said  nothing;  she  did 
not  understand. 

"I  went  away  too  soon,"  he  said,  struggling  to 
pluck  his  thoughts  from  their  tangle.  "There  was 
no  need — I  wanted  to  stay.  I've  been  thinking, 
thinking  a  lot — I  want  to  help  you,  Maggie — more 
than  that.  Why  should  you  be  lonely?  I'm 
lonely  too,  you  know.  Many  a  time  I've  come  here 
I've  been  lonely,  utterly  miserable,  and  you've  al- 


254  LITTLE  HOUSES 

ways  cheered  me.  I — I — Fve  come  again — I 
want  to— I  want  to  stay — to  help  you.  There  isn't 
much  happiness  in  the  world,  Maggie.  I  want  to 
— will  you  let  me  try  to  give  you  what  happineSs 
I  can — Maggie?" 

Her  little  exclamation  told  him  nothing.  He  fol- 
lowed her  as  she  moved  away  from  him  towards 
the  sitting-room,  and  there  in  the  light  he  saw  the 
tears  glistening  in  her  eyes. 

"Maggie!"  he  said,  pleading. 

She  sat  down  at  the  table,  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands. 

"Maggie,  dear." 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  called  her 
again  very  softly.  Then  he  bent  down  and  kissed 
her  hair. 

"No,  no,  John — you  shouldn't!"  she  whispered. 

She  looked  up,  and  he  kissed  her  on  the  lips. 
Then  slowly  she  put  her  arms  up  to  hold  him. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   EVE 

JOHN  was  so  quiet  at  supper  that  his  mother 
asked  him  if  he  had  been  worried  at  the  yard. 
"No — I've  had  a  very  good  day,"  he  told 
her,  and  then  he  strove  to  talk,  so  that  she  might 
not  question  him  further.  He  was  glad  to  escape 
to  bed. 

Sleep  would  be  impossible  for  hours,  he  knew. 
He  had  no  wish  for  sleep.  At  first  he  said  he  would 
think  carefully  of  his  future  plans,  for  there  was 
so  much  to  be  decided;  but  soon  he  abandoned 
his  resolve — it  was  impossible — his  emotions  were 
too  ebullient  to  be  marshalled  calmly  in  thought. 
Maggie  was  with  him  still,  a  transcendent  vision, 
calling  his  soul  a  while  to  the  high  hills,  above  the 
petty  details  of  common  life.  "There's  time  yet," 
he  said,  when  at  last  he  saw  how  hopeless  was 
quiet  thought  to-night.  There  was  time,  indeed, 
for  nothing  had  been  decided — nothing.  Maggie 
was  not  yet  six  months  a  widow.  The  recollection 
startled  him,  and  he  pushed  it  away  behind  those 
which  crowded  forward  to  offer  him  delights. 

"You  mustn't  ask  me.  We  must  think — both 
of  us.  ...  John,  dear  please  don't  make  me  say 
anything  now.  I  never  guessed — give  me  time  to 
think  what  I  ought  to  do." 

The  words  remained,  sharply  graven  upon  his 
inner  thoughts.  All  the  rest  had  lost  its  first  shape, 

255 


256  LITTLE  HOUSES 

and  had  been  retouched  by  his  own  passionate 
fancy.  How  had  she  found  the  strength  to  resist 
his  pleading?  He  asked  himself  in  vain.  She 
loved  him — she  had  always  loved  him.  He  knew 
that  now,  for  she  had  told  him  so — the  secret  she 
had  kept  so  long,  told  in  the  faintest  whisper;  and 
in  his  triumph  he  had  held  her  until  she  looked 
into  his  face  and  told  him  again,  boldly  and  proudly 
at  last.  Why  then  did  she  plead  for  time  to  think, 
while  happiness  lay  here  and  they  might  take  it 
in  both  hands?  Time  was  needed — yes — but  for 
action,  not  for  thought.  No  engagement  could 
be  announced  till  near  the  year's  end  at  least.  It 
was  a  long  time,  but  not  to  be  spent  in  loneliness — 
that  was  past.  Their  garden  of  happiness  would 
bloom  all  the  lovelier,  hidden  from  others'  eyes, 
a  garden  of  sweet  odours  and  singing  birds.  In 
his  enchantment  he  had  no  thought  for  common 
things. 

When  he  awoke  in  the  brightness  of  the  early 
morning  he  lay  inert  a  while  in  drowsy  content. 
Then  slowly  his  thoughts  stirred,  piecing  together 
the  happenings  which  had  kept  sleep  so  long  away. 
What  would  his  mother  and  father  say?  inquired 
a  perverse  spirit,  newly  aroused  within  him.  He 
had  not  once  thought  of  that  last  night.  He  had 
seen  it  coming,  afar  off,  and  it  had  not  been  able 
to  get  to  him,  for  the  press  of  passionate  delights. 
Now  it  seemed  to  have  been  waiting  through  the 
night,  and  gaining  strength,  and  others  had  come 
with  it,  an  importunate  company.  His  father  and 
mother  were  fond  of  him,  and  they  were  proud  of 
him  too,  as  he  was  of  them;  his  mother  especially 
dreamed  of  his  doing  well,  he  knew.  "There's  no 
reason  why  you  shouldn't  rise  steadily,  as  you 
are  doing,  till  you're  invited  to  be  mayor,  some 
day,"  she  had  said  a  few  weeks  ago.  John  had 
laughed.  Secretly  he  had  been  flattered,  and  his 


THE  EVE  257 

ambition  had  glowed.  Many  a  man  had  started 
less  than  he,  and  had  become  mayor  of  his  native 
town.  It  was  not  impossible,  for  what  others  had 
done,  so  he  might  also.  In  a  few  years,  at  least — 
less,  perhaps — he  would  be  a  candidate  for  the 
Town  Council.  Mr.  Benlow  had  suggested  it, 
and  had  promised  his  support;  and  Mr.  Benlow 
was  a  councillor,  a  man  of  influence.  There  was 
the  Social  Club,  too,  with  the  Church  behind  it. 
Already  he  had  valuable  friends,  especially  since 
he  had  left  Binnses,  and  had  become  a  merchant 
with  his  own  yard.  The  painted  sign  on  the  gate, 
and  his  printed  advertisements,  had  served  him 
socially  better  than  any  visiting  cards.  Mr.  Ben- 
low  was  a  loyal  friend.  Mrs.  Benlow  was  always 
the  same,  hospitable  and  kindly.  Willie  called 
him  "old  man"  now,  since  the  painting  of  his  name 
on  the  yard  gate.  Elsie  was  splendid  company, 
very  jolly,  very  nice.  She  would  remain  his  friend 
— Mr.  Benlow  would  remain  his  friend,  of  course 
— his  marrying  would  not  alter  that.  How  could 
it?  And  Elsie?  More  than  once  he  had  dared  to 
hope — but  that  was  past  now.  Mr.  Benlow  migrit 
think  him  unwise,  perhaps.  No  doubt,  many  people 
would  say  so.  His  mother  might  be  disappointed, 
though  she  liked  Maggie — he  knew  she  was  fond 
of  Maggie.  It  was  impossible  to  satisfy  everybody 
in  this  world;  only  fools  tried  to  do  that,  and  did 
not  even  satisfy  themselves.  He  was  free  to  choose 
his  own  life.  He  had  chosen. 

Many  thoughts  distressed  him,  but  his  resolve 
stood  unshaken.  All  the  cold  reason  of  morning 
could  not  move  it. 

At  breakfast  his  mother  perceived  his  disquietude. 

"There's  something  on  his  mind,  worrying  him," 
she  told  his  father  emphatically,  after  he  had  gone 
to  work. 
.  Mr.  Allday  listened  proudly  to  John's  going  in 


258  LITTLE  HOUSES 

a  morning.  He  had  reached  one  of  the  summits 
of  his  ambition  for  his  son.  John  was  no  ordinary 
workman  now,  going  to  work  at  six  o'clock,  as  his 
father  had  always  had  to  do.  Mr.  Allday  had 
laughed  with  John  when  Mrs.  Allday  prophesied  the 
mayoralty;  but  afterwards  he  confessed  that  she 
had  voiced  his  secret  hopes. 

"Even  if  it  happens,  we  shan't  see  it,  Susan — 
I  shan't,  I  know,"  he  said.  "All  the  same,  I  be- 
lieve the  lad  is  going  to  get  on  in  the  town.  I 
hope  so." 

"And  I  do— please  God!"  said  Mrs.  Allday 
fervently. 

They  built  castles  for  their  hopes. 

It  was  not  a  busy  morning  at  the  yard,  and  John 
was  able  to  leave  before  his  usual  time.  He  would 
be  too  early  for  dinner  at  home,  so  he  strolled 
across  into  the  Bullen  on  his  way.  The  sun  was 
warm ;  a  keen  fresh  wind  rolled  the  cloud  tufts  along 
the  sky ;  it  was  good  to  be  alive. 

He  met  Mr.  Pettigo  in  the  Bullen,  and  stayed 
for  a  while  to  chat.  The  old  vicar  had  died  early 
in  the  New  Year,  and  at  first  the  town  had  declared 
joyously  that  Mr.  Pettigo  would  be  installed  in 
the  vicarage.  The  gossips  had  made  jokes  upon 
his  unfortunate  love  affair,  though  for  the  most 
part  the  barbs  of  their  wit  were  not  directed  at 
him,  and  his  momentary  notoriety  served  to  make 
him  more  popular,  since  it  took  many  to  church 
in  curiosity  who  returned  afterwards  because  they 
liked  the  man.  The  local  paper,  in  its  article 
upon  the  vicar's  death,  said  of  his  curate,  "The 
bishop  could  not  make  a  choice  more  pleasing." 
But  the  bishop  was  not  the  one  to  bother  himself 
about  such  unimportant  people  as  mere  parishioners, 
said  the  nameless  popular  voice;  the  bishop  could 
be  trusted  to  put  the  right  relation  in  the  right 
place.  The  new  vicar,  not  yet  arrived,  happened 


THE  EVE  259 

to  be  the  brother  of  the  man  who  had  married  the 
bishop's  niece.  He  might  be  a  good  man,  a  suitable 
man,  deserving  the  higher  call — no  doubt  he  was. 
"Quite  so !"  said  the  gossips.  It  was  a  coincidence 
that  he  happened  to  be  the  man  who  had  married 
the  bishop's  niece — quite  so!  And  from  the  Social 
Club,  where  it  was  taken  up  as  a  password,  the 
exclamation  "Quite  so!"  re-echoed  through  the 
town,  like  a  pantomime  gag.  Perhaps  the  bishop 
heard  a  whisper  of  the  outcry  against  him ;  perhaps 
another  bishop  did — there  was  no  lack  of  rumour. 
Mr.  Pettigo  was  offered  an  incumbency  in  a  small 
country  town  in  Gloucestershire.  Great  prepara- 
tions were  going  forward  to  give  him  a  farewell, 
so  that  he  would  never  forget  Pedley  Hill.  A 
special  committee  was  elected  at  the  Social  Club, 
with  John  Allday  as  its  chairman. 

Elsie  Benlow  came  up  while  they  were  talking, 
and  when  at  length  the  curate  went  to  mount  Castle 
Street  to  the  old  church,  Elsie  and  John  stayed 
chatting  in  the  Bullen.  John  liked  Elsie;  she  was 
always  good  company,  and  with  her  he  never  had 
any  difficulty  in  making  conversation.  She  looked 
very  pretty  this  morning  in  a  light  spring  frock. 
She  had  a  big  bunch  of  narcissi  which  she  was 
taking  home,  and  John  noticed  particularly  her 
hands,  in  white  kid  gloves,  fitting  perfectly — on  a 
Saturday  morning,  not  kept  for  Sundays  only,  for 
churchgoing. 

"Has  Mr.  Pettigo  been  telling  you?"  she  asked. 

"What?"  said  John. 

She  laughed. 

"I  can  see  he  hasn't,  or  you  wouldn't  say 
that." 

She  would  not  tell,  and  she  teased  him  when  he 
pleaded.  John  was  stirred  to  greater  effort;  he 
was  sure  he  could  get  the  secret  out  of  her,  and 
he  tried  all  he  knew. 


2<5o  LITTLE  HOUSES 

"No,  no— I  shan't— I  can't!"  she  said.  "I'll  give 
you  a  flower  instead,  shall  I?" 

She  had  put  it  in  his  coat  when  he  perceived 
Maggie  crossing  the  place.  Little  John  was  walking 
at  her  side,  holding  her  skirt,  and  she  had  the  baby 
in  her  arms,  and  her  marketing  basket  too.  John 
was  disconcerted.  She  must  have  passed  quite  close 
to  him,  and  he  had  not  seen  her;  she  would  know 
he  had  not  seen  her — surely  she  would  know.  He 
could  not  run  away  from  Elsie  Benlow  now,  and 
follow  Maggie  to  explain. 

"Are  you  getting  angry  with  me?"  said  Elsie 
merrily. 

"Yes — savage,"  said  John,  catching  at  her  words 
to  hide  his  agitation. 

She  laughed,  and  he  had  to  laugh  with  her. 

In  a  short  while  after  he  left  her  he  had  forgotten 
his  curiosity.  His  thoughts  were  for  Maggie.  An 
inner  voice  reminded  him  that  he  had  let  her  go 
away  alone,  with  her  heavy  basket,  and  the  baby 
on  her  arm,  and  the  tiny  boy  dragging  at  her  skirt. 
He  had  not  been  able  to  go — she  would  under- 
stand, he  reasoned;  but  the  voice  would  not  be 
stilled. 

He  stayed  indoors  after  dinner  and  mended  the 
door  under  the  kitchen  boiler,  as  he  had  promised 
his  mother;  then,  seeking  to  kill  time,  he  did  other 
odd  jobs  about  the  house.  They  had  tea  early. 
Afterwards  he  had  to  sit  and  talk  to  his  father. 
He  had  no  spirit  for  conversation. 

"You're  right,  mother,"  said  his  father,  when  he 
had  gone.  "He's  got  something  on  his  mind." 

"I  told  you!"  said  Mrs.  Allday,  disquieted. 

Their  surmises  made  their  evening  conversation 
until  supper  time. 

John  walked  towards  the  Bullen.  It  was  too 
early  for  many  members  of  the  Social  Club  to  have 
arrived,  but  he  would  find  somebody  to  talk  to, 


THE  EVE  261 

something  to  do,  he  told  himself.  When  he  came 
near,  however,  he  felt  disinclined  for  company. 
He  could  not  make  up  his  mind  what  to  do;  and 
while  he  suffered  this  hesitancy,  some  other  force 
than  his  seemed  to  take  up  his  will  and  force  him 
to  cross  the  place  and  mount  the  slope  of  Castle 
Street  beyond. 

"I'll  come  to-morrow." 

Last  night  he  had  said  that  to  Maggie — only  last 
night.  What  a  long  while  ago! 

"No,  no — you  mustn't!  I  want  time  to  think. 
Promise  me  you  won't!" 

He  had  promised  at  last,  reluctantly;  and  now 
his  promise  stood  before  him  to  bar  the  way. 
"I'm  not  obliged  to  call,"  he  assured  himself.  "I 
can  go  up  and  straight  past — I  haven't  promised 
not  to  go  past."  And  with  the  words  came  the 
hope  that  Maggie  might  be  outside,  or  little  John 
might  be  playing  in  the  street ;  it  would  be  a  chance 
meeting  then,  and  his  promise  would  have  been 
kept;  she  would  not  be  angry.  If  only  he  might 
see  her,  all  his  uneasiness  would  go,  all  his  doubt. 
He  knew  he  must  decide  soon  what  to  do,  and  he 
strove  to  summon  his  thoughts,  but  his  resolve 
flitted  away  before  him  like  a  little  bird  along  a 
hedgerow. 

Several  figures  were  moving  in  the  Vicarage 
garden.  John  saw  the  gleam  of  light  frocks  and 
heard  the  laughter  beyond  the  hedge.  Higher  on 
the  slope  he  met  Mrs.  Onions  with  her  marketing 
basket. 

"Here  again,  Mr.  Allday!"  she  said  cheerfully. 

John  was  disconcerted.  He  felt  that  she  meant 
well,  no  doubt,  but  her  manner  was  too  prying,  and 
she  was  too  near  guessing  his  secret. 

"Yes,"  he  told  her,  "I'm  just  going  a  stroll  over 
the  hill  and  round.  The  view  from  the  top's  grand 
a  day  like  this." 


262  LITTLE  HOUSES 

"You  want  your  bicycle  to  get  away  out,"  sug- 
gested Mrs.  Onions. 

He  was  annoyed  at  what  he  suspected  was  a  hint 
that  she  saw  through  his  excuse. 

"It's  being  repaired,"  he  said. 

He  was  angry  with  himself  then,  for  he  had  told 
an  unnecessary  lie.  By  reiteration  he  tried  to 
persuade  himself  that  it  was  not  a  lie,  that  if  the 
machine  was  not  actually  being  repaired  it  needed 
it:  the  front  wheel  wobbled,  and  the  spokes  would 
have  to  be  tightened — he  had  intended  to  do  it  him- 
self to-day. 

Once  he  looked  round  and  saw  that  Mrs.  Onions 
had  stopped  to  talk  to  a  friend,  and  he  inferred 
that  she  had  stopped  in  order  to  watch  him.  In 
thought  he  called  her  an  interfering  busybody, 
but  the  knowledge  that  her  glance  was  following 
drove  him  past  Maggie's  house  and  to  the  parapet 
of  the  railway  bridge  before  he  halted.  He  recol- 
lected his  promise  to  Maggie,  and  indecision 
troubled  him.  "I  can  call  later,  when  the  children 
are  in  bed,"  he  said,  and  he  walked  over  the  crest, 
and  down  towards  the  open  country  to  the  east. 
He  might  return  home  by  another  way,  suggested 
a  new  idea.  He  had  promised  Maggie  that  he  would 
not  call  to-day;  perhaps  it  would  be  best  to  keep 
that  small  promise — there  was  a  larger  one  to  keep, 
a  much  larger  one. 

He  had  not  looked  round,  so  he  had  not  seen 
Maggie  and  the  children  in  the  garden.  Little 
John  saw  him  first,  and  told  his  mother  excitedly 
to  look.  He  wanted  to  shout  and  to  run  after  his 
uncle;  there  was  always  such  fine  play  when  Uncle 
John  came;  but  his  mother  held  his  hand  and  kept 
him  at  her  side.  She  stood  there  long  after  John 
had  gone  over  the  hill.  The  child  lost  interest; 
Uncle  John  was  not  coming,  and  so  might  be  for- 
gotten for  to-night.  Maggie  was  about  to  go  in- 


THE  EVE 

doors  when  she  saw  Elsie  Benlow  walk  across  the 
bridge,  pushing  her  bicycle,  and  then  mount,  and 
glide  below  the  summit.  She  took  the  children  into 
the  house,  and  made  ready  for  their  going  to  bed. 
They  were  awed  by  her  silence,  and  didn't  cry  at  all. 

John  chose  the  smaller  lanes — he  wanted  to  be 
alone;  the  irregular  procession  of  cyclists  disturbed 
him  on  the  high  roads.  At  last  he  came  to  a  spot 
where  he  had  often  paused.  The  lane  dipped 
between  high  walls,  and  at  the  bottom  there  was  a 
gap,  with  a  view  upon  a  knoll,  striped  in  black  and 
brown  strongly  against  the  low  sun,  and  round  the 
knoll  a  long  coppice  swung  in  a  curve  of  luscious 
green  beside  a  brook  which  came  trickling  under 
the  road.  It  was  a  sheltered  little  spot,  and  warm ; 
no  wind  blew.  The  cloud  tufts  glided  silently  from 
behind  the  knoll  and  over  the  trees.  A  throstle  sang 
at  the  edge  of  the  wood;  a  tiny  bird,  a  warbler, 
probably,  skulked  quietly  in  the  whitethorns  by  the 
road.  John  felt  an  emotion  which  brought  him 
near  to  tears — an  emotion  which  he  did  not  seek 
to  understand.  The  solitude  seemed  to  hold  his 
thoughts,  caressing  them.  This  was  happiness, 
he  declared.  But  a  noisy  picnic  party  in  a 
wagonette  drove  him  on,  and  he  knew  that  happi- 
ness was  not  truly  here.  The  world,  busy  this 
Saturday  evening  in  the  market  places,  was  only 
unseen  for  a  moment — and  that  was  not  even  the 
real  world;  he  could  not  escape  by  running  away 
from  that.  The  real  world  was  in  his  own  heart. 
And  the  plant  of  happiness  was  no  rare  plant,  to 
be  sought  earnestly  and  long  in  places  where  men 
never  trod;  it  grew,  like  the  shepherd's  purse,  a 
common,  humble  little  flower,  in  every  lane  and 
roadside,  and  thousands  saw  it  every  day  and  never 
knew  it  was  the  plant  of  happiness. 

While  he  was  striving  to  shape  the  vague  thoughts 
which  brought  to  him  what  were  discoveries 


264  LITTLE  HOUSES 

startlingly  novel,  he  was  roused  by  the  tinkling  of 
a  cycle  bell.  He  turned,  and  saw  Elsie  Benlow. 

"I  was  sure  it  was  you,"  she  said  in  triumph. 
"I  was  at  the  Vicarage,  and  I  saw  you  off  on  your 
royal  loneliness.  I  took  the  wrong  turning  twice, 
and  then  my  front  tire  went  down — only  the  valve 
though,  luckily.  Then  I  guessed  you  would  be 
down  some  by-lane — I  remembered  you  telling  me 
about  this.  It  is  pretty,  isn't  it?" 

She  stopped  abruptly.  John  saw  that  she  was 
blushing;  then  he  wondered  if  she  were  only  flushed 
from  her  hurrying. 

They  walked  on  together.  Elsie  explained  some 
of  the  arrangements  for  the  garden-party,  Mr. 
Pettigo's  farewell,  to  be  held  at  Ridgeway.  "I 
had  to  find  you  at  once,  you  see,  before  the  Club 
finish  their  arrangements,"  she  said.  John  agreed, 
and  then  their  talk  drifted  away  pleasantly,  leav- 
ing all  the  garden-party  plans  stranded  in  the 
shallows. 

A  turning  brought  them  to  a  disused  quarry. 
The  sun's  low  rays  swept  over  the  summit,  so  that 
the  stone  face  was  in  shadow,  dark  and  scarred. 
One  side  had  slipped  away,  and  the  red  sand  to- 
wards the  base  was  held  by  grassroots  and  bind- 
weed, and  a  bush  of  gorse,  decked  with  gay  yellow 
points.  Against  the  stone  face  at  the  bottom  lay 
a  pool  of  black  water,  with  sedges  growing  at  the 
brink.  The  machinery  was  gone  long  ago;  only  a 
wire  hawser  had  been  left  trailing,  a  toy  for  mis- 
chievous boys. 

"Isn't  it  lovely!"  exclaimed  Elsie.  "When  I 
was  a  girl  I  used  to  think  it  wonderfully  mysterious. 
There  used  to  be  an  old  watchman — he  told  us  it 
was  haunted,  to  frighten  us,  I  expect.  I  nearly 
killed  myself  once,  getting  hips — there — you  see  the 
bushes." 

She  walked  through  the  gap  in  the  broken  wall, 


THE  EVE  265 

and  mounted  the  path  towards  the  summit  of  the 
quarry.  John  left  her  bicycle,  and  followed  her. 

"It  was  just  here,"  she  explained,  turning  round 
to  wait  for  him.  "I  had  a  marvellous  escape.  Oh, 
wasn't  I  frightened!" 

She  leaned  forward,  and  looked  over  the  edge. 
John  ran  forward  and  clutched  her  hand  to  hold 
her;  and  while  she  laughed,  and  they  stood  hand 
in  hand,  a  lark  sprang  up  from  the  field,  up  and  up, 
singing,  and  then  hovered,  and  sprang  again,  the 
air  throbbing  with  his  melody.  Down  he  came 
again,  singing  ever,  then  suddenly  dropped  among 
the  grass  to  silence.  John  had  not  been  conscious 
of  Elsie's  hand  in  his;  but  when  she  drew  it  away 
he  felt  that  the  warmth  of  her  touch  had  inflamed 
his  inner  self. 

It  was  dusk  when  they  reached  the  town  and 
came  into  the  Bullen.  There  in  the  traffic  they 
found  talk  again  after  the  long  silences  which  had 
told  so  much.  John  had  to  raise  his  hat  several 
times  to  people  whom  they  knew — once,  awkwardly, 
to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Onions. 

"Hasn't  it  been  lovely?"  said  Elsie. 

"Yes,  I've  enjoyed  it  immensely,"  said  John. 

"I'm  so  glad.     Won't  you  come  in?" 

"Well — mother  and  father  are  expecting  me 
early.  I  ought  to  call  at  the  Social  Club,  really. 
The  committee,  you  know " 

He  felt  a  hand  heavy  on  his  shoulder,  and  he 
perceived  Mr.  Benlow. 

"You  can  spare  half  an  hour,"  said  Mr.  Benlow. 
"A  bite  o'  supper — come  along,  ,  .  ." 


CHAPTER  X 

SUNDAY 

"TT  isn't  out  of  the  quantity  of  good  things 
that  happiness  rises — it's  out  of  our  own  ap- 
preciation of  them." 

John  recollected  his  having  said  that  to  Mrs. 
Onions,  when  he  had  been  walking  in  the  garden 
at  Maggie's.  Now,  on  Sunday  morning,  he  re- 
peated it  many  times..  That  only  was  clear  in  the 
medley  of  his  thoughts — that,  and  the  resolve  to 
go  to  Maggie  to-day.  He  tried  to  reason  that  he 
should  be  perfectly  happy,  that  both  his  happiness 
and  his  duty  lay  before  him  together;  he  had  only 
to  take  Maggie  by  the  hand.  Many  similes  occurred 
to  his  fancy.  Hand  in  hand  they  would  go,  like 
happy  children,  into  a  future  which  should  be  like 
a  wide  sunlit  avenue  before  them.  He  was  sure 
he  had  found  his  real  self  at  last,  he  was  so  calmly 
master  of  his  thoughts.  But  why  did  Maggie 
refuse?  At  least,  why  did  she  delay?  She  loved 
him — he  saw  that  she  had  loved  him  always,  and 
he  thrilled  again  at  the  memory  of  her  confession, 
so  gently  said,  with  whispering  and  tears  of  joy. 
Yet  she  was  not  his — not  yet.  Why  was  she  afraid  ? 
Was  she  afraid  of  herself?  No,  surely!  Did  she 
not  love  him?  She  could  not  doubt  that.  Of 
him?  Then  in  pain  his  thoughts  fell  away  in  a 
vague  tumult  of  apprehension.  He  was  afraid 

266 


SUNDAY  267 

before  the  questions  which  came  clamouring  to  be 
answered;  while  out  of  his  disquietude  the  resolve 
pushed  its  way  again — he  must  go  to  Maggie. 
There  would  be  nothing  to  fear  while  he  was 
at  her  side;  that  was  his  place  now.  His  inner 
tumult  would  be  stilled.  She  could  not  doubt 
him  then. 

After  breakfast  he  went  into  the  garden,  and 
walked  to  and  fro.  It  was  going  to  be  a  warm  day. 
The  sky  was  intensely  blue,  with  tiny  puffs  of  cloud 
vapour  rolling,  very  high.  The  grass  was  long  on 
the  railway  bank,  decked  with  countless  dandelions 
and  the  first  heads  of  the  cow-parsnip  flowering. 
Green  shoots  stood  in  rows  in  the  garden  beds,  and 
at  every  waft  of  breeze  the  paper  bunches  danced 
on  their  strings  to  frighten  the  timid  sparrows,  if 
by  chance  there  were  any  timid  ones. 

Gradually  John  found  his  stroll  growing  to  a 
sharp  march,  like  a  sailor's  promenade.  The  little 
garden  was  too  small ;  he  wanted  more  air  and  more 
space;  so  he  walked  round  to  the  front  of  the 
houses.  The  postman  was  approaching;  he  was 
late  on  Sunday  mornings.  As  he  approached, 
John  was  attacked  by  the  curiosity  which  comes 
to  every  one  at  the  sight  of  the  postman  on 
delivery. 

"Mr.  John  Allday,"  said  the  postman  jovially, 
holding  out  a  letter.  "A  lady's  writing,  Mr.  All- 
day."  He  was  an  old  man,  postman  many  years, 
and  privileged. 

John  saw  Maggie's  handwriting  on  the  envelope, 
and  his  body  suffered  in  the  grip  of  his  emotion. 
He  put  the  letter  slowly  in  his  pocket,  fighting 
against  the  impulse  to  hurry,  to  run  to  some  place 
where  he  might  read  in  secret.  Hatless,  he  strolled 
away  from  the  houses  and  under  the  railway  bridge. 
Then  he  looked  round  furtively,  to  make  sure  he 
was  unobserved. 


268  LITTLE  HOUSES 

DEAR  JOHN  : 

I  shall  have  gone  away  when  you  get  this  to- 
morrow morning  for  the  week-end  or  a  few  days 
longer,  perhaps  the  little  change  will  do  the  children 
good.  John  dear,  why  should  I  spoil  your  future. 
I  can't  dear,  all  your  future  is  so  bright  and  I  want 
you  to  rise  high  I  am  sure  you  will.  I  should  be  a 
drag  on  you.  Besides  you  have  your  mother  to 
think  of — she  must  see  you  succeed.  You  must  not 
disappoint  her  you  will  not  disappoint  me,  I  know. 
My  life  was  chosen  five  years  ago,  and  now  I  have 
only  got  the  children  to  live  for  and  your  success. 
Please  don't  try  to  make  me  change— don't  make 
it  hard  for  me. 

I  saw  you  yesterday  with  Elsie  Benlow.  She  is 
very  fond  of  you,  John,  I  know.  I  have  known  it 
a  long  time. 

What  can  I  write  more,  you  know  all  I  would 
say.  I  shall  start  in  business  I  think  at  once.  I 
am  going  to  see  about  it  the  next  few  days. 

Forgive  me  please  I  want  you  to  be  happy.  God 
bless  you,  dear,  good-bye. 

MAGGIE. 

The  writing  was  irregular  and  broken,  penned 
evidently  under  the  stress  of  great  emotion,  labour- 
ing for  expression  in  an  unaccustomed  medium. 
John  suffered  first  astonishment,  then  dread:  in- 
dignation came,  and  fierce  desire,  and  lastly  trie 
emptiness  of  grief;  his  inner  self  collapsed,  and  he 
was  weak  in  body,  as  though  after  an  illness.  A 
thrush  called  boldly  in  an  apple  tree  beyond  the 
hedge;  the  path  was  dappled  with  the  fallen 
blossom.  John  heard  only  Maggie's  voice,  echoed 
within  himself;  his  eyes  were  blurred  with  tears. 

A  milk-float  rattled  towards  the  town,  rousing 
him.  When  it  had  passed  he  read  the  letter  again, 


SUNDAY  269 

then  put  it  in  his  pocket  and  walked  slowly  back 
under  the  bridge.  Where  had  Maggie  gone  ?  There 
was  only  one  early  train  on  Sunday  mornings, 
one  in  each  direction;  but  there  were  two  stations 
— that  made  four  trains.  They  had  gone  now; 
it  was  too  late  to  see  her  at  the  station.  One 
train  had  passed  while  he  stood  at  the  back  door 
after  breakfast.  Perhaps  she  had  been  in  that, 
and  had  seen  him  as  she  passed.  Sam  had  a  cousin 
married  at  Clenver,  a  favourite  spot  for  trippers 
from  Selbridge,  especially  on  early-closing  days  and 
Saturdays.  It  was  on  the  ridge  of  the  hills — 
a  popular  cycling  rendezvous.  Maggie  used  to  go 
there  sometimes  with  Sam,  whose  cousin  kept  a 
small  boarding-house  and  restaurant,  and  did 
prosperously  through  the  summer  with  teas  in 
the  garden,  and  picnic  parties.  There  were  not 
many  places  where  Maggie  could  go  to-day.  She 
had  not  half  a  dozen  friends,  and  she  could  not  go 
to  them  without  warning.  She  could  not  be  far 
away.  It  was  to  Clenver  she  had  gone,  surely.  He 
might  go  over  on  his  bicycle;  there  would  be  time 
even  after  dinner.  But  she  might  not  be  there — 
and  she  would  not  let  him  see  her  alone.  "If  I  was 
only  sure!"  he  said  an  an  agony  of  indecision. 
Perhaps  Maggie  intended  to  start  in  business 
similar  to  Sam's  cousin  at  Clenver.  She  had 
thought  of  it,  he  knew.  Once  he  started  quickly 
towards  the  house;  then  after  a  few  paces  his 
speed  fell  away,  and  he  stood  hesitating.  What 
would  his  mother  say  at  his  sudden  rushing  off 
on  his  bicycle?  He  would  have  to  overhaul  it  first, 
and  she  would  ask  interminable  questions.  He 
dared  not  confess  the  truth  at  once.  She  believed 
that  he  was  going  to  church  this  morning;  he  had 
told  her  so,  and  he  had  promised  the  Benlows. 
That  would  not  matter,  he  declared,  if  Maggie  was 
at  Clenver,  if  he  might  be  sure  of  seeing  her.  And 


270  LITTLE  HOUSES 

then  he  discovered  the  reluctance  in  his  heart,  and 
he  was  shamed.  Maggie  had  Seen  deeper  there 
than  he  had.  She  had  thought  of  his  mother  and 
of  her  hopes,  and  of  all  the  promise  of  his  future. 
Would  his  pleading  change  her,  or  add  only  to  her 
grief?  At  the  thought  of  her  suffering,  and  of 
her  loneliness,  he  was  awed,  and  for  a  moment  his 
thoughts  were  hushed. 

He  stopped  by  the  terrace  to  talk  to  a  neighbour 
before  he  faced  his  mother  indoors. 

"I  couldn't  think  where  you  had  gone,"  she  said. 
"You'll  have  to  be  quick  if  you're  going  to  the 
mission.  You  are  going,  aren't  you?  Didn't  you 
say  you  promised  Mr.  Benlow." 

"Yes,"  he  told  her.     "I'll  get  ready  now." 

He  strove  to  recollect  the  words,  to  justify  him- 
self in  his  having  said  he  had  promised  to  go. 

"We  shall  see  you  at  Nickling  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, I  suppose?  It'll  be  Pettigo's  last  sermon 
there." 

Mr.  Benlow's  words. 

"Oh,  you  must!"  said  Elsie — and  then  he  had 
consented.  The  words  were  forgotten,  but  he  was 
sure  he  had  promised,  and  they  would  expect  him 
to  be  there. 

He  set  out  as  soon  as  he  was  ready ;  it  was  better 
to  be  in  the  open  air,  in  movement,  than  brooding 
indoors.  When  his  mother  had  spoken  of  church 
he  had  not  looked  at  the  time,  and  he  had  hurried 
unnecessarily.  Now  he  saw  that  he  would  arrive 
too  soon  unless  he  walked  very  slowly,  and  he  felt 
that  his  agitation  would  not  permit  him  to  walk 
slowly;  so  he  mounted  the  road  along  the  ridge — 
a  lane  branching  beyond  the  coppices  would  bring 
him  down  to  Nickling. 

When  he  had  crossed  above  the  railway  he  stood 
a  moment  to  glance  down  at  the  Bristol  Road.  A 
black  figure  moved  in  the  drive  before  the  Kings- 


SUNDAY  271 

norton's  house,  Ridgeway.  In  a  moment  it  reap- 
peared below,  and  came  out  on  the  road,  not  a 
single  figure,  but  two,  close  together.  Two  others 
followed — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kingsnorton,  guessed 
John.  He  fancied  he  recognized  Marian  Kings- 
norton. Her  companion  was  the  curate — he  was 
sure  of  that.  They  were  walking  arm  in  arm.  It 
could  not  be  Marian.  Then  who  was  it?  Barbara? 
In  sudden  pain  he  told  himself  that  it  could  not  be 
Barbara.  The  suggestion  was  absurd  and  impos- 
sible. It  must  be  Marian;  he  recognized  her  per- 
fectly— yet  he  was  not  sure,  despite  his  asseveration. 
Was  this  why  the  farewell  garden  party  was 
to  be  held  at  the  Kingsnortons' ?  John  grew 
hot  and  uncomfortable  as  he  hurried.  He  wished 
he  had  not  come  this  way,  and  it  was  too  late  to 
turn  back. 

As  he  came  do>  n  by  the  lane  to  Nickling  he  saw 
the  Benlows  on  the  high  road,  and  he  walked  more 
slowly,  gauging  his  speed  so  that  he  would  meet 
them.  Mrs.  Benlow  had  not  come — she  never 
walked  this  far  now.  Mr.  Benlow  was  with  Elsie, 
and  behind  them  walked  Willie,  and  his  fiancee, 
who  was  staying  with  them  for  the  week-end. 

"You're  an  energetic  young  man,"  said  Mr.  Ben- 
low,  when  they  met.  "It  was  all  I  could  do  to 
get  these  folks  out." 

"Oh,  father !"  exclaimed  Elsie.  "It  was  as  much 
as  we  could  do  to  get  you  out." 

John  smiled.  Their  company  seemed  to  bring 
him  the  anodyne  he  craved. 

"I'm  disappointed,  Mr.  Allday,"  said  Elsie, 
when  they  had  walked  a  little  way.  "You  haven't 
asked  me  anything — just  when  I  was  waiting  to 
tell  you.  Have  you  heard,  or  have  you  lost  all  your 
curiosity?" 

John  was  puzzled. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  with  sudden  recollection — "Mr. 


272  LITTLE  HOUSES 

Pettigo's  secret  isn't  it?  I  saw  him  this  morning 
with  the  Kingsnortons.  It  isn't — er " 

"That  isn't  fair,"  said  Elsie,  while  he  was 
struggling.  "You  should  have  waited  to  be  told. 
Yes — he's  engaged  to  Marian,  and  I'll  tell  you  a 
real  secret:  she  was  in  love  with  him  all  the  time, 
right  from  the  first." 

She  did  not  perceive  how  he  was  affected. 

"Are  you  sure?"  said  he. 

"Of  course!    I've  got  eyes,  haven't  I?" 

"But  she  hasn't  told  you  the  moral,"  interrupted 
her  brother:  "never  boast  when  you  think  you've 
caught  a  woman's  eye — say  your  prayers  instead." 

"Willie !"  exclaimed  his  fiancee. 

"They  say  already,  some  of  'em,  that  Pettigo 
couldn't  have  the  one,  so  he's  taking  the  other," 
said  Mr.  Benlow.  "That's  a  nasty  insinuation — 
trust  your  gossips  to  find  that  sort.  Marian  will 
make  him  a  far  better  wife  than  ever  her  sister 
could  have  done;  she's  got  more  sympathy,  more 
talent,  and  she's  genuinely  fond  of  him.  She's 
older — well,  you  can't  have  everything  in  this 
world — you  can't  turn  your  dreams  into  realities, 
although  so  many  of  us  try.  By  the  time  you  come 
to  my  age,  you  young  folks,  you'll  see  that  life  is 
one  long  compromise  between  the  ideals  you  order 
and  the  realities  that  Fate  offers  you  over  the 
counter." 

"That's  it,  father !"  said  Willie.  "Glorious  youth, 
ready  to  battle  for  a  smile.  In  age  it  takes  a  pickled 
onion  to  do  it." 

John  enjoyed  the  talk — it  drove  away  his 
thoughts. 

There  was  a  big  congregation  this  morning  to 
hear  Mr.  Pettigo  for  the  last  time  at  the  mission. 
John  sat  with  the  Benlows,  and  they  walked  back 
together  after  the  service. 

"No  mistake,  it's  a  lovely  day,"  said  Mr.  Benlow. 


SUNDAY  273 

He  stopped,  took  off  his  hat,  and  mopped  his  brow. 
"It's  a  day  for  a  good  dinner  and  a  cigar,  and  then 
forty  winks  in  a  comfortable  chair,  with  your  feet 
up,  outside  in  the  shade — and  that's  what  I'm  going 
to  have." 

"But,  father,  you  said  you  were  going  to  take 
us  out  a  drive,"  said  Elsie. 

"Did  I?" 

"We'll  go  without  him,"  said  Willie. 

"Ask  John  here,"  suggested  his  father.  "He 
wouldn't  see  me  robbed  of  honest  sleep — would  you, 
John?" 

"That's  right,  John,  my  boy,"  said  Willie  affably. 
"We'll  leave  the  old  folks  to  their  indigestion  and 
their  cup  of  strong  tea  at  four  o'clock." 

John  accepted  the  invitation  gladly.  Fate,  he  be- 
lieved, was  keeping  him  from  the  loneliness  he 
dreaded.  To-day  at  least  he  would  not  be  left 
alone  with  thought;  here  was  fortune  holding  out 
her  hands,  full  of  active  joys.  When  he  thought 
of  Maggie,  it  was  to  wonder  why  she  had  written 
of  Elsie  Benlow.  Perhaps  it  was  true  that  Elsie 
liked  him — she  did  like  him — yes.  Was  there 
more  than  friendship  in  her  thoughts?  Did 
Maggie  see  deeper  than  he  in  this  thing  also? 
He  had  always  been  fond  of  Elsie;  she  was  so 
unaffected,  so  good-natured.  Mr.  Benlow,  pros- 
perous now,  had  started  as  low  as  he,  and 
had  risen  no  more  rapidly.  He  had  never  wor- 
shipped Elsie,  as  he  had  worshipped  the  Barbara 
Kingsnorton  who  had  never  really  lived.  Elsie 
was  too  jolly,  too  splendid  a  companion,  to  be 
worshipped — she  was  a  splendid  comrade — and 
what,  after  all,  did  a  man  crave — a  comrade,  and 
more  than  a  comrade,  but  essentially  a  comrade. 
He  was  startled  by  the  new  swiftness  of  his 
thoughts. 

Near  the  Toll  they  met  John's  father  out  for  his 


274  LITTLE  HOUSES 

morning  promenade,  and  they  stayed  for  a  while 
to  talk* before  parting. 

Mr.  Allday  entered  the  house  in  front  of  John. 

"Your  son,  Mrs.  Allday — he's  got  something  on 
his  mind,"  he  announced  solemnly. 

"I  know  he  has,"  said  Mrs.  Allday.  "I  don't 
like  it." 

John  was  startled  by  her  tone. 

"He's  going  out  a  drive,  breaking  the  Sabbath, 
Mrs.  Allday,  with  a  young  woman  named  Benlow, 
and " 

"Go  on  with  you,  giving  me  such  a  start!"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Allday.  "I  hope  he  never  does  any- 
thing worse." 

"He  won't  hurt  if  he  never  does  anything  better." 

They  were  merry  over  dinner.  Afterwards  they 
waited  to  see  the  dogcart  arrive  before  they  pre- 
pared for  their  usual  nap. 

Elsie  was  driving.  Willie  and  his  fiancee  sat  at 
the  back. 

"Jump  up,  Mr.  Allday!"  she  called  out  merrily. 
"Willie  says  I'm  the  worst  lady  whip  within  fifty 
miles,  so  I  can  promise  you  excitement,  if  not  enjoy- 
ment." 

"Just  what  I  want,"  said  John. 

"Which?" 

"Both." 

His  father  and  mother  stood  at  the  front  window 
till  the  dogcart  had  gone  out  of  sight. 

"There  goes  your  son,  Mrs.  Allday,"  said  John's 
father.  "You  won't  see  him  back  again  as  he's 
gone." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  said,  alarmed. 

"He'll  come  back  engaged,  or  as  near  it  as  makes 
no  matter — you  see  if  he  don't." 

"Why  can't  you  say  what  you  mean  straight  out, 
and  not  go  startling  anybody?" 

Mr.  Allday  slipped  his  arm  in  her's. 


SUNDAY  275 

"Come  along,  Susan,  old  girl,"  he  said  gently. 
"Half  an  hour's  doze.  Your  lad's  in  good  hands. 
Why,  in  three  or  four  years'  time  you  won't  get 
the  chance  to  sleep  on  a  Sunday  afternoon:  it'll 
be  'Grandma — can  I  play  with  this?  Grand- 
ma!" 

"Go  along,  you  wretch !"  she  exclaimed  laughing. 

"You're  blushing !  You  are  I  You  are !"  he  cried 
triumphantly.  "Why,  old  girl,  you're  good- 
looking  still!  If  you  don't  go  off  upstairs  at  once 
I  shan't  sleep  in  my  chair  for  thinking  how  nice 
you  are." 

He  led  her  gaily  into  the  sitting-room. 

"It  is  nice  to  think  of  him  doing  well,  isn't  it?" 

"It  is,  Susan." 

He  kissed  her  gently  before  she  went  upstairs. 
Then  he  put  the  cushion  right  in  his  arm-chair, 
arrange  the  hassock  for  his  feet,  folded  his  arms, 
and  settled  down  for  his  wheezy  sleep  till  tea-time. 


THE   END 


V  FACILITY 


A     000  1 1 1  285     3 


